Leprechaun
by Sendai
Summary: Sherlock is facing almost certain death, when a strange man appears, claiming to be a leprechaun and saving Sherlock's life. Romance, mayhem and magic ensues. Johnlock. First kisses and more. Rated M for eventual smut. Romantic/Humorous/Angsty/Fantasy/Crack? Beta'd by Old Ping Hai. Now COMPLETE :D
1. Chapter 1

**Rated M** for one brief mention of a gory death.

**Leprechaun**

"Tonight you die, Sherlock Holmes!" cackled the suspect, Paddy O'Brian, waving his gun madly.

The wind wailed up and over the low cliffs, as waves crashed against the below. This same wind tangled the dark curly hair of the Worlds only Consulting Detective. It blew his coat out behind him and passed into the empty grass covered hills.

It was the dead of night and ten miles to the nearest village. No help would arrive; this was indeed to be the last bow of Sherlock Holmes. And now at the end, he realized that he didn't want to die. He felt his skin crawl with goosebumps, and suddenly he was so bloody cold.

"Say nighty-night, Sherly, " crowed O'Brian.

"Really, that's it?" asked a voice in the dark. "Paddy O'Brian, are you really preparing to kill the greatest mind ever to grace these hills? Not to mention he plays the fiddle like an angel; it made me cry. And have you seen his face? His cheekbones could break your heart. They broke my heart."

"Who's out there?" demanded O'Brian harshly.

"Just me," said a light tenor. "M'name's John."

O'Brian goggled. Even Sherlock blinked his eyes rapidly. A tiny person, perfectly proportioned but only about four feet tall, seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. He grinned at Sherlock, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight.

"That's a fine pistol you have there," said the small man, walking slowly forward. Sherlock noticed that his hair glowed silver, from the moonlight of course. Really, the little man was rather attractive, albeit very short.

"Don't come no closer, les' you want to die," snarled Paddy, having redirected the gun at this little person.

"Nah, you don't want to shoot _me_," said John, who had moved himself between Sherlock and the gunman. He made a rather inadequate shield, although he was certainly brave. "I have something you might like. Run, Sherlock. Do you like gold, Paddy? _I have gold_. _Run_, Sherlock. In fact, I have a whole pot of gold. Dammit, Sherlock, when a supernatural being appears out of nowhere and tells you to run, you _run_."

"You're just trying to trick me!" shouted Paddy angrily, turning his handgun back on Sherlock.

"Look, Patric Seamus O'Brien," yelled John. "Look in my hand, it's gold. We'll make a trade, I'll give you my gold, and you'll let this lovely man go free. Really, run now, Sherlock, please. Oh, look at the gold, Paddy. It's real, and it can be_ yours._"

Several gold coins gleamed in John's hand, indeed they seemed to glow.

"Are you magic?" asked O'Brien, his thick stupid lips gaping in shock.

"Of course he isn't," said Sherlock.

"You're both sodding idiots!" cried John, fairly dancing in anger. "_Of course_ I'm magic. A four-foot man appears out of nowhere wearing stupid green breeches and a stupid green coat and he offers you gold. What the bloody hell does that tell you?"

"That you're a very bad tempered, possibly delusional, little person who performs slight of hand tricks with fake gold coins," suggested Sherlock, who smiled down at the cute little man.

Sherlock was struck in the head with a coin. It smarted rather a lot. The cute little man glared darkly at Sherlock. It was strange that Sherlock could see that this John's eyes were blue, dark blue.

"Hey, that was my gold coin," protested O'Brian, breaking the spell between John and Sherlock.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," muttered the small, angry man. "Look here," he said walking slowly towards O'Brian. "See, here's FIVE gold coins."

Sherlock stooped to pick up the coin, which had probably left a bruise on his forehead. It was heavy, heavy like gold. And it was a soft metal; a key easily scratched the surface of the coin, which was consistent with gold...but then the coin could also be made of lead too.

"If you're a leprechaun," said Paddy thickly, "then there should be a whole pot o'coins."

"That's right," said John encouragingly, getting closer and closer to the hulking man.

"No. There's no such thing as leprechauns, and even if there were, you are clearly not Irish. Your accent is a bit odd, but I suspect..."

"I said you had a brilliant mind, Sherlock, but I fear that I was wrong," said the really small man with the really expressive face, who might be blond and who definitely had a sharp tongue in his mouth. "You're actually an idiot. Here I am trying to save you. And you argue with me, in spite of the evidence. Now, I've heard you going on and on about trusting the evidence. You were brilliant, a bloody genius. So. please pay attention, genius. I appeared, magically. I made gold appear, magically. I am glowing, magically. Paddy here wanted to shoot you, but now he's magically more interested in becoming really, really rich, thanks to my magic gold. So, this…_this_ is the time when you exeunt, stage right. Mmmm?"

"If you were Irish, your name would be Eoin or Seán," insisted the consulting detective.

"Shut up, Sherlock," said John, with a sigh.

"Gold, real gold," breathed O' Brian.

"Possibly real gold," interrupted Sherlock, who was tempted to bite the coin to test its authenticity, irrational though that thought might seem.

"I want the rest of the gold, leprechaun," snarled the gunman. He pointed his pistol at the little man's head, which bothered Sherlock more than it should. He wanted to protect the fey little man with the shinning hair, who had twice praised his intelligence (while still calling him an idiot) and who had once praised his music.

The wind blew John's hair, which wasn't shining so much as it was glowing yellow and gold like the sun. Sherlock stepped forward.

"Stay back, Sherlock Holmes. The gold is not for you," commanded John.

Sherlock couldn't move.

"Yeah, stay back; the gold is mine," growled O'Brian.

"Patric Seamus O'Brian, if you want the gold, then follow me," said John, holding out his hand to the man towering over his head. "You must take my hand, if you want the gold. Take my hand of your own, free choice."

O'Brian appeared to dither, shifting from foot to foot, his gun all but forgotten.

"Do you want my gold, Patric Seamus O'Brian?"

"Yeahhh," murmured the big Irishman.

O'Brian took John's tiny hand in his huge paw. And the two men both glowed golden, their hair standing on end. The consulting detective remained frozen in place, as the two men smiled at one another like mismatched lovers.

John took a deep breath; he cocked his head to look back at Sherlock with his glowing blue eyes-blue like the color of the sky at dusk. His smile fell from a large, insincere grin for the bewitched O'Brian, to a small, sad half smile. Indeed, his lower lip trembled.

The glowing little sprite smiled sadly, a golden tear trickling from his eye, "You should have run, Sherlock. Goodbye luv..."

"No, wait," yelled Sherlock, released from his stasis. "Wait, John, wait."

There was a brilliant flash of golden light, and Sherlock was knocked to the ground by a powerful, yet silent blast.

Sherlock rose up on his elbows, looking for John, looking for O'Brian, looking for storm clouds, because he might have been struck by lightning. There were no storm clouds, and John was gone. O'Brian was forgotten. The detective was trying to stand and crawl at the same time. He needed to look over the cliff's edge.

Then three gunshots rang out in the night, cutting through the wind and chilling Sherlock to the marrow.

* * *

Sherlock ran towards the sound from the gun. He was running to the ruins of an old church, or perhaps it was a monastery? He vaguely remembered it from a map. He couldn't remember for sure.

Oh, what did it matter?

He ran heedless of the danger. He ran, tripping over the uneven ground and long grass. He ran until he tripped over the half-buried foundation, barking both his shins and falling face first into the dirt.

For the second time that night, he rose unsteadily to his feet. The half moon lit up the old churchyard and revealed two bodies. He ran to the massive body, which surely belonged to O'Brian, he kicked the gun out his ham-sized fist. No response. He bent to check for a pulse, and then saw the long metal spike sticking out between O'Brian's ribs.

The consulting detective was far from squeamish, but gasped nonetheless at the man's macabre death.

Then he scrambled over to the small form of John. Apparently, John was not magic after all. He also lay lifeless, as blood seeped out of his torn shoulder. Sherlock half-lifted the small body to find the small entrance wound on John's back, it was the messy exit wound on the chest that was bleeding.

O'Brian had shot John once in the back. The coward deserved to die a second time.

Sherlock looked back up at the smaller man's face, to see dark eyes shining at him.

John?

"John! You're alive."

"Mmmmm. An'...an' it...it doesn't feel good," muttered John. "H,hurts."

"John, shh, I'll call for..." Sherlock stopped and frowned; he hadn't been able to get a signal up on the headland, and that was less than a mile away. He checked his phone, no bars. Which meant he couldn't call for help. And John would die.

"Ohh, oh your long distance...mobility telephone! " squeaked John. "I been...wantin' one of those."

"Hush, John, save your strength. And let me think..." muttered the frantic detective.

Seeing the small man shiver, Sherlock ripped off his long wool coat, placing it gently over the little man, who appeared to have grown almost a foot? Surely he was almost five feet tall now. Maybe I'm going into shock too, wondered Sherlock.

The taller man stared in bemusement at John, running his fingers through his silvery fringe.

"I think...that...you're s'posed to kiss me," whispered John.

After the bizarre events tonight, Sherlock was willing to do anything. He bent down. He breathed in and smelled John, who smelled of loam and grass, sage and thyme and starlight. No, wait that made no sense at all. But it was true nonetheless.

John's eyes glinted in the dark, his lip turned up into a half smile.

Sherlock pressed his lips against John's cold lips. He cupped John's face, pressing three more chaste kisses onto John's smiling mouth.

"John, my dear, nothing's happening."

"Sorry, luv, if I wasn't so weak...I'd make sure...sure that somethin' happened…for you."

"Idiot!" snapped Sherlock trying not to laugh for fear that it would make him cry. "I thought you meant that if I kissed you then...then..."

"The wha? Then...I'd magically heal?" John made a gasping sound, half-giggle, half-sob. "I doesn't…work like that…I, I just wanted a kiss, my love."

Sherlock wanted to cry. He didn't even know this man...being...whatever… and now he was losing him...and Sherlock wanted to cry.

Over the sound of the wind, he heard someone calling his name.

Lestrade.

Lestrade would have been searching for Sherlock back at O'Brian's hideout. Lestrade must have heard the gunfire too.

"Lestrade!" bellowed Sherlock. "Lestrade! Over here. There's a man. He's hurt. Hurry!"

"John, hold on. Help is coming."

"Kay," whispered John, grimacing. Then he whispered, "If I'm not dyin', then maybe you should put pressure on...on my wound?"

Sherlock cursed himself for a fool before wadding his scarf and pressing down on the wound. John moaned and writhed in pain.

It was intolerable to see the once shining man, dimmed, suffering and possibly dying.

"Sherlock! Are you all right?" Called the detective inspector. He came running and gasping like a bellows. "I heard the gunshots...I called for backup...They'll be here...in a few...Oh shite, who's this then?" Lestrade dropped slowly to his knees, checking for a pulse.

"This is John. He saved my life. _That,_" said Sherlock, pointing to O'Brian's corpse, "_is the scum_, O'Brian."

Lestrade stared at the body, then began cursing, "Shite, shite, shite… Sherlock, did _you _kill O'Brian?" demanded the detective inspector.

"No. I think he fell on a knife, a long blade thing, maybe a sword...oh, who cares? John, needs an ambulance."

"Yeah, good luck with that. No, sorry. Not funny. Look, we got a helicopter in bound..."

John's eyes snapped open. "No! One of them... whirly-round-and-round flyin' machines? Oh...oh, Sh'lock, I been wantin' to... try one of them...for years," John whispered breathlessly, as his eyes squeezed shut. "God, Oh God...Sh'lock...it hurts..."

"I know. I know it hurts. But…but stay with me, John. I hear the helicopter, John. It'll be here soon," murmured Sherlock. "We'll get you to hospital. You'll be fine. Just stay with me...and you'll be fine." He caressed the pale, worn face. He bent and soothed John with kisses and tears.

Lestrade gaped, "Christ...they said this place was enchanted, but you…Sherlock...I mean..."

"Shut up, Gavin," he snapped at Lestrade. His voice to John was soft and heavy, like a down comforter, "John, I want you to look at me." said Sherlock. "That's right. Stay, stay with me, John. Stay..."

* * *

**A/N **So I was listening to Irish music against my will, when this plot bunny was born. I know next to nothing about Ireland or Leprechauns, so I apologize in advance for any weird mistakes concerning Ireland or Leprechauns.

Also, this was not beta'd, nor Brit picked nor Éire picked. If you see mistakes (and we all know that they are in there), please pass them along and I'll fix 'em.

This may be a one shot if there isn't much interest. Then again, if there is interest or if the plot bunnies conspire against me, there might be a couple more chapters.

This is probably where I should stop babbling and politely request reviews. Reviews make me and my bunnies very happy. Please review?

No matter what, Happy St. Patricks Day!

**Ritual Disclaimer, **because I want to be a lemming and do what everyone else is doing. I do not own the rights to BBC SHerlock or any characters from the show.


	2. Do you believe in magic?

**A/N **Due to circumstances beyond my control, chapter 2 was lost and replaced with another chapter 1. Bit not good! I am grateful to both to Arty Diane and Old Ping Hai who noticed the error and brought it to my attention. Many thanks to both of you!

Due to more circumstances (which should have been under my control but weren't) I did not have a full copy of chapter 2. So I have re-written Chapter 2 (as well as possible and with the assistance of my Beta Old Ping Hai) and am now reposting it. This chapter 2 is similar but not identical to the original chapter 2 (one hopes that it is just as good).

Many thanks to Old Ping Hai for beta'ing Leprechaun, Chapter 2—again! Thank you so much!

**The Renewed and Hopefully Renewed Chapter 2**

"But I don't remember it," said John sadly, "I don't remember riding in the whirly-round-and-round. It doesn't seem fair, not remembering my first time flyin'."

"It was dark. You wouldn't have seen anything, anyway," said the tired consulting detective.

First John was shot. He nearly died.

Then he spent the next twenty-four hours high as a kite from pain medication. Obviously, John did not have any tolerance for opiates. Nevertheless, Sherlock hadn't left John's side for more than a couple of minutes. The detective had never felt such concern for another person before. He was only comfortable when he could watch over the small blond, holding John's hand, caressing his hair and face. While John slept quietly, Sherlock dozed uneasily in the visitors' chair and ignored hospital visitation policy by sneaking in every time they threw him out.

Eventually they gave up, or possibly Lestrade had intervened. The reason was unimportant.

Aside from keeping his own anxiety at bay, Sherlock also tried to ensure that no one clearly understood John's semiconscious rants. He was certain that if anyone did overhear John, they would insist that the wonderful blond, who called Sherlock brilliant, be sectioned. Doctors and nurses might be suspicious about a man who argued over fairy kings and buried treasures.

The next twenty-four hours were better. The barely-competent doctors finally heeded Sherlock's demands to drastically lowered the pain meds, and John awoke—somewhat. When he was awake, he was confused, grumpy and hungry. As soon as he ate what passed for food in this sterile purgatory, John fell back asleep.

Today was better yet; the doctors had ordered oral pain meds on demand, and John hadn't had any meds for several hours. Despite the pain from his wound, he was still hungry but less grumpy.

The blond did pout occasionally, like right now, which should have driven Sherlock screaming from the room. Instead, the normally abrasive detective catered to John, soothing him with stories and kisses, which made John very happy.

However, Sherlock's new found affections made Detective Inspector Lestrade very unhappy.

Over the past three days, Lestrade had expressed his _deep concern_ at Sherlock's sudden romantic interest John, who Lestrade stupidly considered a virtual stranger.

There had been arguments and threats between the two detectives. Sherlock would have almost preferred dealing with his intrusive brother—well, maybe not. Nevetheless, Gavin was intensely annoying.

The detective inspector had ordered drug tests for both John and Sherlock, which of course were negative.

The detective inspector, who had no real authority in Ireland, had promised to return to question John Doe (as he called John), but he had not shown his face yet today…another reason that today was a much better day.

"Still not fair," said John, looking a bit like a grumpy hedgehog, which is to say, adorable.

Even Sherlock had to admit that his own thought processes had taken a turn for the worse, thanks to the short blond. Not that Sherlock was complaining, not as long as he had his John.

"Hmm?" hummed Sherlock.

"I said that it's unfair that I missed it all."

"John?"

"What?" asked John, blinking his gorgeous blue eyes at Sherlock.

"You must have flown before this," said Sherlock. "When you were a doctor in the army?"

"How do you know I was in the army?"

"Easy. The way you wear your hair. The way you stand. The way you talk when you're angry. Your body told me that you've seen your share of fighting."

John raised his eyebrows.

"Your scars?" said the detective. "There is a scar from a large caliber bullet wound in your right thigh."

"You were looking at my thighs?" asked John, waggling his brows salaciously.

Really, the man was too adorable for this world, thought Sherlock.

"And a blade wound on your arm," continued the brunet, as he sat in his chair," and across your chest."

"The last two were from bronze knives," said John. "M'leg wound was caused by a rebel musket ball."

Sherlock raised an incredulous eyebrow.

"Sorry I interrupted," said John, smiling affectionately at Sherlock. "Go on; you have more to say."

The musket ball assertion seemed unlikely, but no one ever smiled affectionately at Sherlock except John, so Sherlock let it go.

"Then there is the fact that when you came out from anesthesia, you babbled about the incoming wounded, a boy who needed an amputation, you said the rebels were gaining ground and you called out for Major Sholto. Should I be jealous?"

John blinked again, even as he blushed. Then he said, "No. There was nothing between me and the Major. Besides, it's ancient history… he's dead," added the blond quietly.

"I'm…sorry?" said Sherlock. "That's what one says, isn't it? I'm sorry for your loss?"

"It is. But you don't have to say it to me, Sherlock. As I said, ancient history; my army days are long gone," said John smiling that smile which made his face glow and lit a fire in Sherlock's chest. "But _that_ was amazing. Just extraordinary. Almost as good as when you assaulted that baker to make him talk about his cousin Paddy."

"I did not assault anyone..."

"You verbally assaulted him. You wiped his eye, and no mistake!" said John with a wheezy chortle. "You told him his wife was cheating on him with the dog catcher."

"Obvious, she was wearing an expensive, new outfit suitable to a twenty-year old. It was covered in dog hair from no less than three different dog species. Her lover had to be the village's twenty-something dog catcher."

"It wasn't obvious to me."

Sherlock smiled proudly and then frowned.

"How would you know? You weren't there!"

"I was there," insisted the former soldier. "I confess that I was following you as you tracked down Paddy O'Brien. I had to. You were the most interesting thing to come to that part of County Clare in a hundred years."

"John, I think I'd remember if you were there or not."

"Not if you couldn't see me," said John, wearing a half-smile. "Magic, remember."

"Or you were eavesdropping. Or perhaps the baker told you..."

"Sherlock," sighed John. "You really need to know the truth about me."

"Finally!" exclaimed the consulting detective. "I have eight theories. The most likely one is that you are suffering from PTSD and..."

"Unplug the heartbeat monitoring thingy," John ordered, as he pulled the wires off his chest. The detective quickly unplugged the monitor before it could scream in protest. Then John ripped out his IV catheter.

"John, what are you doing?"

"Shite! Look at it bleed," exclaimed John, dabbing at the blood seeping from his vein. "It's like when I used to bleed my patients to balance their humors. Oh blast, it's not even my own blood, is it? It's some stranger's blood that _you_ let them transfer into me, when I was unconscious. I really don't like these ivy things or these modern blood transfers; they're unnatural. I mean, whose blood is this? Over the years, I read about these blood transfers in the journals, but I'm not sure if I trust 'em."

"John, is there some point to all this?"

"Yes. No more ivy blood for me. And you've got to understand that I'm magic, but you won't believe in magic until I shove your nose in it," said John. "Right. Now call the nurse, with that special button."

Sherlock had appropriated the call button, since he was the one constantly calling the nurses on John's behalf. Sherlock was not popular with the nursing staff.

"John, don't be absurd."

"Fine," said John, painfully crawling off the bed to grab the call button away from Sherlock.

"John, stop. You'll hurt yourself!" cried Sherlock, pulling the blond into his lap. "Idiot! I'm calling the nurse."

"Yes. Do that. Call the nurse. But try to act surprised, like you don't know where I am," said John, before muttering, "Damn, it does hurt."

Sherlock gently cradled the crazy, yet oh-so-desirable blond against his chest and pressed the nurse-call button repeatedly.

Someone responded almost immediately, having learned not to ignore Sherlock Holmes.

"What is it now, Mr. Holmes?" said the harried nurse from out in the corridor. "Poor Mr. Watson is just a lamb, but you keep..."

She entered the room, friendly but impatient.

She stopped in the doorway; her jaw dropped and her eyes were wide as saucers. She looked at Sherlock, with his arms full of John. Then she looked at the empty bed, the IV dripping on the floor, then back to Sherlock, her mouth moving stupidly, yet saying nothing.

'Just like a cow chewing her cud,' thought Sherlock irritably.

She darted into the attached bathroom, for no apparent reason.

The detective thought that she was rather overdoing the whole 'stupid surprised cow' thing.

"John wouldn't listen to me," complained Sherlock, trying not to be distracted by John nuzzling his neck. "He got out of bed..."

"Why didn't you call me at once!" screeched the nurse." He can't have gotten far, not with that shoulder wound. I'll call security..."

She stampeded out of the room.

Sherlock looked down at the man huddled against him, quivering...or gasping. Yes, John was making little gaspy giggling sounds. John was quivering with laughter.

"Did you _see_ her _face_?" squeaked the blond, who was trying to hold in his glee. He actually looked a bit like a mischievous leprechaun.

"John, I don't understand."

"_She_ can't see me now. _No one_ can! Only you," whispered John.

"How...how..." stuttered the pale detective.

John punched Sherlock's shoulder surprisingly hard, and whispered, "_Magic."_

The nurse, her supervisor, and an aide stampeded back into the room.

"When did your friend leave?" "Where was he going?" "Why didn't you call us sooner!" Followed by several other questions, none of which Sherlock could answer.

Sherlock affected a casual pose, carefully setting his hands on his knees, allowing his left arm to brace the leprechaun.

Since the brunet only gave unsatisfactory answers, the hospital staff soon charged off in search of one John Doe, with the assistance of two security guards and a psychiatric intern.

John squirmed in Sherlock's lap again. Since John only wore a skimpy blue hospital gown and no pants, his movements became inappropriately arousing to the younger man.

"_Now_ d'you believe in magic?" demanded John smugly.

"I am willing to temporarily suspend my disbelief."

"Stubborn man," groused John. "But a very handsome one." John placed several kisses along Sherlock's never-ending jaw line.

"John, this is very lovely..."

"Mmmm, is something magical happening with our kissing this time?" asked John innocently.

"Nothing can happen, until you recover..."

John looked stricken. "Sherlock! Be reasonable, we have to snatch our happiness while we can. You know, carpe diem and all that."

"While it is oddly titillating to be seduced by a half-naked, randy, English-born leprechaun who quotes Horace at me, I must insist that you return to bed..."

"Nope!" said John. "I can't lie around here like a sitting duck, waiting for the Fay to hunt me down."

"But you just tried to seduce me?" said Sherlock, narrowing his eyes.

"I'm a leprechaun. I'm supposed to be capricious," said the blond sprite? fairy? pixie? "And if I can't seduce you right now, then I suppose we should concentrate on escaping."

"You said the Fay will want to hunt you down? You mean more…people like you, like sprites?" asked Sherlock.

"Sprites? I suppose you could call them sprites. I suppose you could even call me a sprite, but that seems a bit missish, if you ask me. I prefer the term leprechaun. Yeah. I'm a leprechaun, and they are the Fay or Faeries. And they're magic people. Some of who are not very nice. They gave me the knife wounds. There were a couple of misunderstandings."

"Misunderstandings?"

"Yes," said John. "But back to the Faeries, now that the curse is broken…"

"Which curse exactly?" asked the detective.

"I was cursed to guard their bloody gold..."

"Because you're a leprechaun?"

"Nooo," said John, tilting his head. "I was taken by the Faeries to settle a blood debt, which meant I was supposed to be killed. But the king claimed me, so they didn't burn me alive. I never understood the burning to death to repay a blood curse, but anyway, they didn't kill me at all. Instead, the King cursed me to guard the gold, which effectively made me a leprechaun."

"I see."

"No you don't, but maybe you could just pretend that you believe me for now," said John, reaching up to comb through Sherlock's hair. "See, the King became obsessed with me. And he wanted to keep me around forever, and he tied me to the treasure…it was his way of showing his love for me," said John with heavy irony. "He had some other ways too, actually, which eventually led to those misunderstandings."

John's fingers in Sherlock's hair felt soothing, but the younger man still felt a burning desire to annihilate the bloody fairy king.

"But, back to the treasure," said John, "Because of the King's curse, which tied me to the faerie gold, I could only travel about twenty miles away from it."

"And the treasure was buried amidst the ruins of that monastery."

"Yesss, except the gold exists in Faerie and on Earth at the same time."

"More magic?"

"Powerful magic. Of course the monastery wasn't there when they first buried the gold...which I think was thousands of years ago," said John, bracing his good arm on Sherlock's shoulder. "And it's in a clay pot, not an iron pot, because they can't abide iron."

"I see."

"I can tolerate iron because I'm not a real faerie."

"Yes."

"It does give me a rash though…if I'm in close contact with it," added the sprite. "The point being, Sherlock, I was trapped either in Faerie or in that small bit of County Clare for a very long time. But now, I am more than twenty miles from the ruins..."

"Nearly sixty miles," corrected Sherlock.

"Right. Sixty. Well I shouldn't be able to be here, unless I was dead with my chest ripped open or if the curse was broken. I'm not dead, so that means the curse is broken. The King won't like that, so they'll be comin' to claim me."

"To take you away?"

"Back to Faerie."

"I won't allow it," asserted Sherlock.

"That's very brave. You are so smart and brave too…and handsome," said John approvingly, as he smoothed back some dark curls off Sherlock's forehead. "You are so amazingly wonderful…" John shook his head to clear it. "I think it's best if we leave here sooner rather than later, which is a shame because hospital is a marvelous place. I mean look what they can do nowadays…and the food here is delicious. But, needs must…"

John stood and began hobbling toward the door.

"John, even if you're invisible..."

"Unseen..."

"...you won't get far with that injury."

"Ummm, you might be right," agreed the leprechaun. "And it might be hard to fight off the Fay, too."

"I could call my brother," offered Sherlock.

"Oh no, luv! I know you don't like calling him because he's fat, nosey and bossy."

"How do you know that?"

"I heard you tell that inspector fella that you didn't want to call your brother because he was fat, nos…"

"I assume that you were lurking about 'unseen'."

"Yes," confessed John. "But I wasn't lurking. I was watching…"

"It's fine, John. I don't mind. Clearly anyone stuck in those wretched ruins and that dreadful little village would have been bored and desperate for distraction," said Sherlock, waving his hand about.

"Exactly!" cried John. "It was terrible sometimes. And then you came to track down that miscreant O'Brien, and you were so bloody brilliant that I couldn't help but watch and admire you. And fall in love with you."

The sprite beamed at Sherlock, who smiled back at John's unadulterated admiration and affection.

But Sherlock's smile faded as he remembered that John was in danger from some kind of fairy attack. Yet John was still recovering from his bullet wound and wasn't fit for travel. Indeed, the blond shouldn't even be walking around.

"Frankly, I don't see any other option but to call Mycroft," said Sherlock who got up to lead John back to the bed.

"I've thought of another option," said John, who refused to get back into bed. "How would you like to meet a witch?"

"Why?" asked Sherlock pressing his lips together.

"I've learned healing from the Fay. I'm very good at it, probably because I was an army doctor, like you guessed."

"I never guess."

"The _point, _Sherlock, is that I can't actually heal myself. But Mary is a witch, and a damn fine healer, and she'll heal me...unless she's in a bad mood."

She doesn't like you?" asked Sherlock, sliding an arm around his leprechaun.

"Oh no. She loves me," said John nodding his head. "But we had a bit of a falling out. Still, she'll probably be willing to heal me, which will be a big help."

"How do you propose we leave the building?" asked Sherlock, who had decided to believe everything that John said...for now.

"Well now, you're very clever and I can remain unseen," said John. "I can even shrink a bit, if that would help."

In the hallway, Sherlock passed the psychiatric intern, who was still looking for John Doe. Neither the intern nor anyone else noticed the small, child-sized man who Sherlock carried well wrapped up in his blanket, which was also invisible…or unseen, as John liked to call it.

The detective easily flagged down a cab and gave directions to some so-called witch's house, while a miniature John settled comfortably back in Sherlock's arms. It would have been heavenly to sit alone in the back of the cab with John safely in his embrace, but instead, the younger man sat terrified as he helplessly watched a spot of red slowly grow on John's hospital gown.

"You're bleeding," Sherlock whispered into the leprechaun's ear.

"Only a little, " said John, not whispering. Apparently, he was unheard as well as unseen by the cab driver. "And I bet it's that other person's blood seeping out anyway. And if you keep talking to me the livery-driver will think you're insane, because he can hear you even if he can't hear me."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Magic, Sherlock," said John with a cheeky little smile. "It's all magic."

**A/N **Sorry for the confusing Chapter mix-ups. Clearly, I was cursed by the Faerie King, and thank you for your patience. Now that I have restored Chapter 2, I hope to post Chapter 5 in the next several days.

Thank you to everyone who reads this and special thanks to those of you who have reviewed!

:D

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Sherlock Holmes or John Watson. No leprechauns or Faeries were injured during the writing of this story.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N** Forgive me for the long hiatus since I posted the last chapter. This story is finally finished and will be uploaded over the course of the next several weeks. (Four chapters to go). This work was beta'd by my friend Old Ping Hai.

Celtic translations {because obviously Faeries speak Old Irish}

Dún do bhéal= shut up

A chroí, a ghrá= my heart, my love

(I do not speak old Irish, partly because I am not Fay. I got the translations of the Internet. I apologize if I got them wrong.)

Leprechaun Chapter 3

Slouching uncomfortably, Sherlock found that he didn't quite fit in the fussy little sitting room in the old cottage. He glared up at rafters that brushed his curls each time he moved as he tried to avoid bundles of hanging herbs. He moved slowly so as not to knock over the many bizarre knickknacks set out on tables and the mantel. He stared balefully at a skull, which reminded him of his own cozy sitting room and his own familiar skull.

Sherlock Holmes missed London and his comfortable and logical existence, which had not included mythical beings and magic. On the other hand, his prior existence had not included John, and John was all that mattered now. His priority was to get John safely ensconced in 221b Baker Street.

Unfortunately, before they could leave for London, John had insisted on visiting this picturesque, miniature cottage to consult a _witch_, who was undoubtedly short of stature, just like Sherlock's leprechaun.

He had hoped without conviction that the diminutive, blond-ish woman who confronted Sherlock at the door was the witch. But the stocky fifty-year old woman had exclaimed and then fussed over the injured leprechaun with nary a spell, but plenty of blithering.

Her name was Harry, and she couldn't believe that John was injured and how could he do this again and who was this stranger and how did John get there and on and on and on.

On the other hand, after her initial distress, she had squared her shoulders and bitten her lips (in a perfect mimicry of John). She then became the embodiment of bustling practicality, washing John's wound with some herbal concoction and dressing the still-seeping wound with a clean towel.

John bore it all with resigned stoicism until this feminine version of John tried to give him a sponge bath.

"Harry, leave off," grumbled the leprechaun, "I'm fine."

"You're not fine," said the older woman. "You're filthy and smelly..."

"Because I was in hospital..."

"Which is where you should still be," she said, scrubbing his hands with soap and water.

"I couldn't stay there, the Fay found me there," said John, trying to get the wet flannel from Harry.

"What?" demanded both Sherlock and Harry.

"John, you didn't tell me that there were fairies at the hospital," accused the detective.

"They weren't there yet, but their minions were there," said John, vainly trying to pull free of the sturdy blond's grasp.

"Which ones?" asked Harry.

"The storm crows," said John, "and Sherlock, I didn't tell you because I didn't want to frighten you."

"Don't be ridiculous," said the too-tall detective, ducking his head to sneer at John. "Why would I be frightened of crows?"

His question was overlooked when Harry interrupted with, "The Fay'll find you here just as easy then." She eyed the drawn curtains nervously.

"Yes, of course they will," agreed John, looking pale but alert as the woman scrubbed under his arms. "But if I'm healed, I can easily hold off a murder of crows, and a fair few warriors too. I've done it before."

"_If _she heals you. She's been in a rare taking all week long," muttered Harry. This confirmed the detective's conclusion that Harry was not the witch that John was seeking. "In the meantime, John, you're bleedin' to death on Mam's newly reupholstered sofa."

They all glanced at the upholstery, which was decorated with wildly colorful flowers, principally bright red poppies.

Then the leprechaun groused, "I'm not bleeding to death."

John looked up to exchange glares with the incongruously named Harry. The leprechaun could have been looking in a mirror, thought Sherlock, because his eyes were her eyes, and their brows formed identical furrows of dismay. Clearly, deduced the detective, they were blood relatives, perhaps siblings. She might even be John's mother, if she had gotten pregnant while still a young teen.

"Well, you're bleedin' now," she said.

"Yes, but only a little," agreed the wounded former human.

"And according to your friend here, you've been bleedin' off and on for days."

"That's one way of putting it..."

"And even leprechauns have a limited supply of blood?"

"Yes, but..."

"So if you keep bleedin' all over Mam's sofa, then you'll eventually bleed to death," said Harry. "Not to mention pissing Herself off with the stains—you know how she gets."

Sherlock nodded vigorously, because he had been worried about John's slow but steady blood loss. John nodded too, but seemed to be more concerned about staining the new upholstery.

_"_Well," sniffed John finally, "I'm not bleeding to bloody death today!"

"And how would you know?" Harry retorted.

"Because I'ma bloody doctor!" snapped John. "I was the Medical Officer for the Northumberland Fifth Regiment of Foot..."

"That was over two hundred years ago. Now you're just a renegade changeling who's bleeding all over Mam's newly reupholstered settee."

"Bugger her newly reupholstered sofa," growled John angrily, even as he looked worried.

"On the positive side, I think the bleeding has subsided somewhat," said Sherlock diffidently, his hair scraping a rafter as he nodded.

"Who asked you?" asked the sturdy middle-aged woman, rounding on the hapless detective. "Are you a doctor?"

"No..."

"Then shut it."

"Harry, you can't talk to Sherlock like that. And I'm a leprechaun, not a changeling."

"Six o' one and half dozen o' the other," said Harry dismissively. "Look, you may ha'been human once, but now you're somethin' more. And I certainly don't care if you call yourself a leprechaun instead o' a changeling, if it keeps you from having a species-identity crisis."

"I'm not having an identity crisis, and I'm not Fay," insisted John.

"Yeah, you tell yourself that, John. Go ahead and call yourself not-Fay from now until next Beltane." Harry stood in front of John with hands on her hips, looking like a stern headmistress.

"Because I'm not Fay," argued John, looking the part of the misbehaving student.

"John Watson, the important point isn't whether you're Fay or not-Fay, the point is that you've gone renegade! You belonged to the King. And now you've gone and broke the King's curse, and you've run off. He's goin' to send someone after you," said the stocky blonde, running her hand through her short hair. "I bet he sends the champion..."

"Yes, exactly, which is why Sherlock brought me here."

"Sherlock? And that's the name of this tall drink of water?" Her blue-eyed gaze ran up and down Sherlock's form. "Is this man your champion?"

"No."

"Then what good is he?"

"That's what I'd like to know," said another woman's voice.

A petite, elderly woman entered the room, brushing back her short snow-white hair just like Harry had. The old woman was even shorter than Harry or John. Her pale, nearly translucent skin was as wrinkled as a sultana, and her bright, blue eyes emanated malice.

She smiled slowly with painted, blood-red lips, and Sherlock was instantly sure that this crone was the witch.

"Hullo, Mary," said John diffidently, almost nervously. The leprechaun was ignored as Mary advanced toward the tall brunet.

"Well, stranger in my demesne, who are you, to steal my husband's heart?" she intoned.

"Husband?" gasped Sherlock, turning his shocked glance toward the blond who was struggling to sit up using just his right arm. John shook his head at the detective, before turning his head to face the elderly woman.

"I'm not and never have been your husband," snapped John, trying support himself on his good elbow.

"You are as good as my husband," said the witch. "For over fifty years now..."

"No. No, no..." protested the leprechaun.

"Yes!" hissed the elderly woman. "Yes, I bore your child, leprechaun. That makes you my husband..."

"We spent a summer together. One short season, Mary. And in the process you lied and said you were unmarried, you lied and said you were barren, you lied and lied and lied. And you tricked me so that you could have a baby when your husband was impotent."

"I didn't hear you make any complaints when your cock was seated deep inside me, leprechaun."

"Mary, not in front of Harriet!" hissed John, looking askance at the middle-aged blonde.

"Oh for God's sake," cried Harry. "I know all about how I was conceived, and I know why you're my dad; so you can stop trying to protect me. Not to mention, I'm older than you, Da!"

"Well, not to be pedantic, Harriet, but I am over two hundred years old."

"And let's not forget, Da_,_ that you've spent what? Only thirty-four years on God's green earth? While I've spent close on to fifty-five!"

"And I spent two hundred years in Faery," snapped John.

"Where time runs differently: forwards, backwards and upside down, making the Fay and their guests mad as March hares," said Harry.

"Don't quote me to me," muttered John.

"If you two are done with your stupid and irrelevant argument over who is older than who," said Mary sweetly, "the point I was making is that my John and I are bound together for all eternity..."

"Wrong!" said John, pointing his finger at the witch. "I told you from the very beginning that I could only be with you for a few weeks, at most for one season, because the king of the Fay had stolen my heart."

"What?" exclaimed Sherlock. "You love the fairy King?"

"Don't be silly, luv," said John, smiling with adoration at Sherlock. "The King stole my physical heart, not my loving heart, which was dead too. And thanks to you, I have them both back now."

Mary made a rude, gagging sound as she pretended to stick her finger down her throat.

"Spare me this lovesick drivel," snarled the witch. 'You only think that you like this man because he's tall and pretty, and because he was the first dog to come sniffing since you broke free of the King. And that is something I would like to discuss, because it shouldn't have happened, and we will discuss it in detail after we send this animated scarecrow away. In the name of Hecate, how could he mean anything to you, John? He's not magical...why, he doesn't even believe in magic."

"Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Sherlock is my heart, my soul-mate."

"He's a common human who will desert you, breaking your poor new heart all over again," said the witch pityingly.

Sherlock shook his head 'no' and finally succeeded in banging his head on a low-hanging rafter. John winced in sympathy with the detective, who was rubbing his head. Then he turned back to the wizened little witch.

"I do not belong to you, Mary; I never did. My heart belongs to Sherlock Holmes, and nothing you say will change me. So don't try using your charms and Voice on me, because they won't work," said John crossing his arms, and then wincing again at the pain it produced.

"You choose your handsome friend over me? Then I see no reason to waste my time healing you," she said, pasting a vicious little smirk on her bright red lips.

"Fine. Sherlock, we're leaving," snarled John.

"Da, you're not leaving!" exclaimed Harry. "You're still bleeding! Mam, of course you'll heal him!"

"No," said Mary.

"I'll be fine. I don't need her help. Wounds do heal, even without magic," said the wounded sprite.

"I thought some fairies were coming after you," interrupted Sherlock. "You said that you needed to be healed so that you could defend yourself from fairies."

"That was the plan. Now I shall use my contingency plan. I'll make a run for the coast," said John.

"Ha! I'd like to see how far you can run with that hole in your shoulder. You'll bleed to death before the next sunrise," said Mary with unholy glee.

"No," said John, pursing his lips.

"I have foreseen it," intoned the witch.

"Liar!" spat John, "You are always lying. And if you can see the future, did'ya foresee this?" he asked making a rude two-fingered gesture.

"I should turn you into a toad."

"Try it, witch," snarled John, glaring daggers at the small crone. "Maybe I'll curse you with bad luck and you'll turn yourself into a toad."

"How are you going to curse me after I turn you into an amphibian?"

"You don't intimidate me with your fancy twenty-first century words. A reptile is still a reptile."

"You ignorant fool, an amphibian is not a reptile."

"Well, they were in the eighteenth century!"

"You don't even know what I'm talking about."

"Ha, you're talking about your relatives—the horny toads."

"I hate when they do this," sighed Harry.

"I can see that they are not well suited for marriage, though few people are. Just look at divorce rates," replied the consulting detective, as the diminutive supernaturals spat threats at one another.

"You have that right, boyo," agreed Harry.

"Yet clearly, you too are in the midst of a separation with your own wife," said Sherlock.

"How d'you know that? Wait, are you a seer?"

"No," said Sherlock, "I simply observe..."

"I'll curse you with spiders and snakes!" said John.

"I'll turn _you_ _into_ _a_ _snake_," offered Mary, waving a short gnarled stick, which might have been her wand.

"Should I be worried?" asked Sherlock.

"No, Mam's spells often don't work on Da, especially the transfiguration spells. And his magic is always non-lethal," said Harry, shaking her head at the belligerents. "You know, sometimes they're quite good friends."

"...not afraid of a little bad luck from a part-time Faery, who can't even explain his own spells. "

"I'm not a Faery, I'm a leprechaun. And I don't use spells. I use earth magic sourced from within my marrow, which worked pretty damn well when your wand turned to ash. Oh don't give me that blank look, Mary Morstan. You remember. You tried to curse the Bailey twins, because they stole your milk cow..."

"So, Sherlock," said Harry, trying to distract the visitor-and herself. "You were saying that you knew all about me because of what you observe?"

"Indeed. For example," continued Sherlock, "I observed that you are a lesbian, as evidenced by your clothing, hairstyle and the masculinization of your name."

"I could be a tomboy."

"Yes, but that would hardly explain the wedding pictures on the mantel, which feature you and your wife."

"Oh. Right," said the short, abashed blonde.

"The separation is evidenced by the absence of a wedding ring, which has been off your finger long enough for the white line to begin to tan. You clearly hope that it is a separation and not a divorce, because you wear the ring on a gold chain around your neck. You hope that if you can recover from your alcoholism, then she might take you back..."

"Stop! That's enough," said Harry, raising her hands in defeat. "I don't want to hear any more." There was a pause as the flustered woman put her hand on her stomach followed by a couple of deep breaths.

Sherlock waited for the usual response to his deductions: tears or anger. He was betting on anger.

But Harry only smiled weakly and said, "Right, I'll just take your word for it, shall I?"

The detective's lip twitched up in an almost-smile. Her acceptance of him was very John-like.

Mary hissed loudly, drawing Sherlock and Harry's attention back to the argument.

"I _want_ to _know_! So just tell me, John!" screeched the witch, pointing a knobby finger at the blond's chest. "Tell me what spell you used to get your heart back."

"And I've told you a hundred times, I don't use spells," said John.

"And I've told you that you must be using spells instinctively. You broke a powerful spell..."

"I think I just by-passed it..."

"I want that magic. If you don't know the spell, then tell me what you were thinking. Show me how you regrew your heart...and then I'll heal you," said Mary.

"I don't _know _how; so how can I tell you?" asked John, who fell back into the pillows looking pale and tired. "I didn't even notice that I had a real heart again until I was in the hospital and that Heart Beeper Machine was keeping track of my heartbeat. Which is when I realized that I was hell and gone from the treasure, meaning the curse was broken too, but I haven't the foggiest idea of how it all happened or why."

"It was love," said Harry, barging into the fray. "It was love that broke the spell and..."

Mary mimed gagging herself again, "_Love! _Ergh!" said Mary in disgust. "You are romantic fool, Harriet Morstan."

"I write romantic novels with Da," said Harry, pointing to John with her chin. "It only follows that I'd be a romantic fool just like him."

"John is your _father_?" asked Sherlock, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Yes," said everyone else.

"_Your _father?" he repeated, looking at the middle-aged woman.

"Yes." said Harry. "John is my Da and Mary's my Mam. You can see why I'm in counseling."

"So John...you're as old as the witch...as Mrs. Morstan?" he asked.

"Well, technically," said John, "I'm a lot older. I was born in London in 1769."

"You...you've aged...well," said Sherlock, whose head was spinning from all the impossible things he was expected to believe.

"Well, I spent most of the last two centuries in Faery, and I don't seem to age much when I'm there," said John.

"I think it's another dimension," offered Harry. "You know, like one of those alternate universes those physicists go on about," said Harry. "They had it on the telly..."

"It's magic, pure and simple," said Mary, who sidled up to Sherlock and placed a claw-like hand on his arm. "Like the glamour John used to make you fall in love with him."

"I did not use my glamour on Sherlock," exclaimed John hotly.

"Let me show you," offered Mary, muttering a Celtic-sounding chant under her breath.

Suddenly, Mary was a much younger woman in her mid to late thirties. Her smooth skin was pale, except for the blush over her cheeks. Her brushed back hair was a shiny blond. She had a trim but curvy figure, which would have attracted most men. Even Sherlock thought that she looked desirable-very, very desirable. Almost as desirable as John.

"This is a spell, but it's much the same as his glamour. Oh, come on," said the witch, her blood-red lips smiling seductively. "Of course he used magic to attract you. How else can you explain your love for a man that you've only just met?"

"No," said John. "Don't listen to her, Sherlock. She's using her Voice..."

"Dún do bhéal," snarled Mary. *

John's mouth snapped shut, although his eyes bled entreaty as Mary pinned the injured man to the sofa with one hand.

Harry ran towards her mother, "Mam, don't..."

"Dún do bhéal," repeated the witch, silencing her daughter. "See Sherlock, it's all magic."

"Ah," said Sherlock.

"Johnny's a leprechaun..."

"But not if the curse is broken..." Sherlock tried to argue, but it was hard to reason with his heart shattering from the pain of John's betrayal. John had used him. John had used his magic to bewitch Sherlock, probably to ensure Sherlock's aid.

"Now the curse which tied Johnny to the Faery gold is obviously broken, or he wouldn't be here so far from the treasure," agreed Mary. "But he's lived with the Faeries for the better part of two centuries; he's still a leprechaun. A creature of Faery. A creature of magic."

"You are still a leprechaun? Even though the curse was broken?"

John nodded, reaching a hand towards Sherlock. Mary slapped the leprechaun's hand aside.

"Johnny can't help but use magic, because he _is_ magic," said Mary. "You've been bewitched by my golden lad just as surely as if I'd laid a spell upon you."

John vigorously shook his head no, his mouth moving noiselessly.

"Oh, stop trying to fight my spell, Johnny-boy; you know you're much too weak to resist."

Sherlock found himself backing out of the room. Betrayed. Used. No one ever really wanted him. They just wanted what he could give them.

"And if you don't want to be in thrall to a Faery for the rest of your life, you'll keep right on moving, Mr. Holmes," Mary said, waving her wand towards her daughter, then John and then back towards the confused and broken-hearted detective. "Think about this realistically-Johnny may look like a golden-haired, smooth-cheeked boy to you, but that's impossible. It's a lie. Johnny is no boy, Sherlock. He carries the scars and wrinkles from too many battles and too much loss. His hair isn't gold like the sun, bah...it's the color of sand mixed with the grey dust of centuries. You have to understand what you're dealing with here. He's an old creature full of magic and half-crazed from living with the Fay. My guess is you were just the first likely stooge to come along to help him break the curse. As soon as he's healed, he'll be on his way-without you."

_'Of course,' thought_ Sherlock_, 'why would a magical being like John love a clumsy, rude, ridiculous man like me. He just used me, to escape from the so-called fairies. It's all crystal clear now.'_

"Now don't take it to heart, Mr. Holmes," said the smirking witch. "You'll soon forget the lies that dripped off his honeyed tongue."

John tried to rise but collapsed back into the settee after a jab from Mary's wand. Harry reached for the detective's arm, but he shrugged out of her reach. He hurried into the hall, lunging toward the door, chased by the witch's cackles.

Sherlock hesitated by the door, breathing heavily as his mind raced. He realized now that the leprechaun had used some sort of spell or magic on him. The sprite had played with Sherlock's heart and, even worse, toyed with his mind.

Sherlock Holmes valued his mind above all else. He had spent years enthralled to cocaine, wasting his genius, potentially risking permanent brain damage. He couldn't stand by and allow his mind to be tampered with again.

He opened the door and stepped back out into the real world. The cool air soothed his aching head. The thought of that glamour affecting his mind and heart was repellant. How could John do this?

Sherlock remembered his brother's prophetic words, _'all hearts are broken'._

Yes, and it was happening to him. The pain in his chest was caused by his heart breaking into painful shards. He called for a taxi on his mobile phone while he ran away from the witch's lair and the impossible leprechaun who had claimed to love him.

**A/N** My grateful thanks to my Beta, Old Ping Hai. Any remaining errors are John's fault.

Thank you for reading. Next chapter will be up in the next week (everyone cross their fingers or knock on wood).

Reviews are welcomed. In fact, I'll encourage John to send virtual good luck to everyone who reviews this work.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N** As promised, here's the next chapter only a few days late, for which I apologize profusely.

I'd like to credit and thank my Beta, Old Ping Hai, for editing this chapter.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

The taxi drove through the weeping dusk. The detective looked sightlessly into the mist, still fleeing from the bitter words of that witch.

Still, she had promised that Sherlock would forget John's golden hair and his lies.

At first, he had thought that she would use a spell to make him forget all about John. Apparently, even that that was to much to hope for.

Then the consulting detective tried to delete the whole sorry episode on his own. But he found that he couldn't delete John. He couldn't delete those memories.

Instead, he recalled that first night, when John had magically appeared on the wind-swept bluff. The leprechaun's hair had been a bright, sunny gold, and his face shone with youth and vitality. Even then, Sherlock felt the first stirrings of desire, which apparently had been falsely ignited by magic.

No doubt that golden glow and the lust which followed was that magical _glamour_ that Mary had been on about.

The taxi sped on towards the airport, taking him far away from witchcraft and magical sprites. Sherlock intended to return to London at once. He could send for his luggage later. Even better, he'd make Mycroft send for it.

The clouds spilled tears of loss, tears which Sherlock refused to shed.

In his mind, he tried to turn the entire incident into a series of scientific trials. Experiments were logical. One didn't become emotionally tethered to research. The genius tried to quantify the magic, the glamour. He tried to compare that first instance when John had shone with magic with the other times that John had glowed…but he couldn't recollect any other times that John had exuded magic like that.

In fact, aside from when John did that shrinking trick of his or made himself invisible, he had never observed the leprechaun using magic.

The leprechaun didn't even glow with glamour when he went invisible. In fact, it was just the opposite. When the blond wished to be 'unseen', he became plain, dull, almost flat right before he disappeared. It would have been fascinating to study John's ability to disappear, but, no, it was a waste of time to think about all the 'what could have beens', thought Sherlock.

According to Mary, there had been times when John had used his glamour to trap the heart of Sherlock Holmes. The detective sorted through his surprisingly extensive mental files on John Watson (all of which resisted deletion), yet he could find _no other time _whenJohn had exuded that preternatural attractiveness, that intense vitality, that glow of magic, which he had displayed that first night. They hadn't discussed it, but what if John had used his glamour to distract that wretched O'Brien? John had only been there to protect Sherlock; surely he couldn't blame the leprechaun for using magic for defense. And in the end, John had been shot for his trouble.

Hardly the actions of someone who was using Sherlock.

His index finger tapped his full lip as he reviewed the data.

Using magic, John had indeed looked golden, young and impossibly beautiful on the bluff. And upon further review, John absorbed light when he used magic to disappear. It would appear that Sherlock could tell when John was using magic: John gave off or soaked up light depending on the situation.

And in the past few days, John had certainly not been using glamour to bewitch Sherlock. John had not looked at all like some dewy-faced golden boy.

No, John had only appeared to be a mature man—with dirty blond hair (and hints of grey); a weathered face (with premature wrinkles and laugh lines); and deep blue eyes that looked upon Sherlock Holmes with love and devotion.

'_Damn it! John didn't bewitch me; Mary bewitched me! She tricked me! ME!'_ thought Sherlock, pounding his fist down on his leg. _'She must have used a spell to confuse me...unless she simply outsmarted me...No, surely she could never outsmart me, and besides, John was trying to warn me about her voice! She used a spell, and I fell for it. Damn it!'_

Sudden hope surged inside him so strongly that he could scarcely take a breath. His voice seemed strangely harsh and unfamiliar when he shouted, "Cabbie! We need to return from whence we came! The game is afoot!"

It took several minutes for the consulting detective to explain that he wasn't drunk or trying to cheat the cabbie. He was forced to pay the driver cash upfront (including an additional fee for keeping the cabbie from his well-deserved dinner).

However, the taxi was eventually turned around, amidst much honking and several insulting hand gestures from other drivers. And the car headed back to the witch's lair.

Sherlock's fingers tapped nervously. He silently and not so silently urged the driver to accelerate, increasing the fee necessary to continue the trip. Sherlock paid it at once and drummed both sets of fingers upon his knees.

With the evening traffic and the poor visibility, it would take at least another hour to return to the witch's lair, which was far too long. The detective fairly vibrated with anxiety. What if John couldn't forgive Sherlock for abandoning the leprechaun?

No…no, that was unlikely. Surely John would want Sherlock back again. John would understand that the witch had skillfully used Sherlock's own insecurities against him, probably even utilizing her magic wand to cast some kind of spell.

After all, John had said that he loved Sherlock...he said that his heart grew back for love of Sherlock, which was scientifically implausible—although it did explain the leprechaun's fascination with the heart monitor.

Well, John said his heart grew back and Sherlock would just have to trust the leprechaun. Anyway, the laws of science clearly required a major overhaul to include magical principles.

Actually, the supernatural world would require detailed study and analysis. Indeed, the existence of magic shed a whole new light on some of Sherlock's most baffling cases such as that glowing matchbox...

The taxi slowed to a stop, bringing Sherlock out of his reverie. They were still a half a mile from their destination. The detective was prepared to complain loudly, when he noted the emergency vehicles clogging the road.

The Garda directing traffic said that there was a house fire. Sherlock got out of the cab.

Over the budding treetops, tongues of flame could be seen licking beneath billowing smoke.

Sherlock was devastated. He was certain that the burning house belonged to the witch Mary, and that John was hurt again…or dead. The detective's shattered heart crumbled slowly into dust as he walked on foot, soon to learn the awful truth.

Oooooo

The world's only consulting detective wore a heavy grey shock blanket. His eyes teared—from the smoke and not from sentiment. He gazed dully as firefighters doused the blazing timbers of the witch's home. Although the brunet had approached the house against the express orders of the Garda, he was still treated kindly in his obvious shock and grief.

One of the firefighters had taken a few moments to inform Sherlock that both of the women who lived there had been lucky to escape the fire with only mild cuts and bruises. However, there were no reports of anyone else leaving the building.

The firefighter was worried by Sherlock's questions about John and scurried off to report a possible missing person. Sherlock didn't bother to follow; he was so overwhelmed with regret and grief that he didn't question why Mary and her daughter had been cut and bruised, rather than burnt. He didn't even bother to ask why they hadn't reported the leprechaun missing.

John was gone. And Sherlock stood, bereft and befuddled.

The fire and lights from the fire trucks illuminated the damp gloom and lit up the glowing face of a local urchin, who slowly ambled over, stepping around firefighters and over hoses.

Thanks to the on-going drizzle, the boy's sodden blond hair was plastered onto his head. He wore an adult's baggy jeans tied over his waist with rope and rolled up over his ankles. He also wore a huge and hideous striped woolen jumper and no shoes, despite the inclement chill.

The detective did not want to be disturbed in his mourning, so he frowned, hoping to drive the child back to his no doubt tedious home. The young boy, barely an adolescent, paused, shivering in the chilly mist and clutching his arms to his thin chest. In spite of Sherlock's scowl, the boy smiled shyly and continued to approach, keeping his blue eyes locked on the detective's face.

Sherlock's own eyes narrowed as the boy passed directly in front of the Garda and firefighters, eliciting no reaction from them. In fact, no one else seemed to notice the barefoot blond, who casually appropriated a thermos from under a fire inspector's big nose.

As he stepped away from the vehicles, it was clear the flashing lights didn't illuminate the boy; he was glowing faintly all on his own.

"Hullo, Sherlock," piped John, in a nervous, childish soprano. He seemed uncertain of his welcome. "Would...would you like some tea?" he asked, offering up the thermos. "At least, I think it's tea. We could..."

He was cut off as the detective crushed him to his chest. Sherlock ignored the smokey taint on the boy, breathing in the smell of wet hair, wet wool, wet downs and sea air. Then the tall man breathed out a faint, "John."

"Here now!" cried a Garda. "Where'd tha' lil'boy come from and wha're you doin' with 'im?"

"I'm not a boy," said John, who shoved the thermos at Sherlock. John was suddenly a golden youth of nearly twenty with a beautiful tenor voice…much like his usual voice.

"Well...well, I still want ta know…where'd you come from, young man," demanded the Garda suspiciously. "And where's your shoes. And I want ta make sure this 'un hasn't been making inappropriate advances to you," she said to John, while glaring at the detective, who seemed much too old for John.

"This is my cousin. The one I was looking for," said Sherlock, lying smoothly. "I had feared the worst, so naturally, when he showed up, I hugged him in relief."

"Ere now, you said you was lookin' for a man..."

"I am a man," said John.

"He is a man—a very special young man," said Sherlock.

"But where you been then, young man? Why din't you come out sooner? And why din't the Morstan's report 'chu missin?"

"Because I'm not missing. I'm right here," said John, with a blinding smile.

"Just so," said Sherlock. "Now, clearly you can see that John is _special, _and that I must return him to his family before they worry."

"Special?" asked the Garda.

Sherlock pointed at his head.

John beamed at the supposed compliment. "I'm special!" he said.

The Garda's eyes widened with understanding. She smiled, ruffling John's wet hair. John pulled away, leaning into Sherlock. The detective felt the leprechaun shivering and pulled him closer.

"Yes, I understand. A very special youngster," the kindly Garda said.

John's smile faded and his eyes slowly narrowed as he became suspicious. He turned to the detective and asked softly, "What exactly do you mean by _special_?"

"My cousin is cold and wet," said Sherlock, wrapping the grey blanket around the youth's shivering form. "I must get him somewhere warm and notify his family, who are worried sick."

"No, they aren't," said the leprechaun. "But I am cold..."

Sherlock wrapped a long arm around his youthful leprechaun and ushered him away from the still-burning remains of the witch's lair.

* * *

A/N Once again allow me to thank Old Ping Hai for editing this story for me. If there are any remaining errors, it's the fault of the Faery King (or possibly me) (not that I am of the Fay, but you know, the mistakes might be mine, maybe.)

P.S. I know there are lots of ways (probably better ways) to spell Faery. The approved spellings are Faerie, fairy. Also, Fae should not be spelled Fay. However, the Leprechaun and I chose the irregular spellings for no very good reason, and we'll stick with them until the end of this fic.

**Thank you** for reading this story. The next chapter will be up in the next week.

Reviews are welcomed. In fact, I'll encourage John to send virtual good luck to everyone who reviews this work.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N **My apologies because this is one week late due to technical difficulties in chapter 2 (namely, chapter 2 had disappered.) (Chapter 2 has been restored—if you were wondering). Anyway, here is chapter 5.

Thank you, Old Ping Hai for beta'ing my story.

**Chapter 5**

Sherlock had called for another cab. The company forced him to pay double before they would send another cab to the crazy Brit.

During the ride, the chilled leprechaun huddled as close to Sherlock as was decent, still shivering beneath the shock blanket.

The taxi deposited the pair at an old, run-down hotel. After paying for the room with cash, they tripped together over the broken, pothole-ridden car park, which was only dimly illuminated by the partially lit 'vacancies' sign.

"This is a nice place," said John honestly. "I like it." John smiled happily at the graffiti covered walls and peeling paint on the doors, as if they belonged to a proper manor and not some shady pay-by-the-hour hotel.

Sherlock smiled because John was happy. He smiled at John's smile and his laugh-lines and crinkled brow. There was a lot of smiling.

At some point during the ride, John had returned to what Sherlock thought of as John's normal age, which was mid-thirties (ignoring his actual age which could possibly be measured in centuries). He had also stopped glowing. Luckily, the cabbie hadn't seemed to notice either the glow or the miraculous age change.

The room itself was shabby and musty smelling. The reds and greens of the mismatched polyester bedspread and curtains were faded and stained.

The detective frowned at the suspicious stains. He regretted the necessity of bringing his precious John into such a scurrilous environment. He locked the door even as he glared at the poor accommodations.

Meanwhile, the leprechaun dropped the damp shock blanket to the floor and turned around and around, grinning at the room. "This is elegant, Sherlock. Look at the satiny curtains. Look, there's carpet everywhere. Oh, there are three electrical lamps. I love lamps. I love electricity," said John, flicking the light switch a few times.

"Oh! Look at the bed. There's only one bed, Sherlock. Isn't it marvelous," said John, bouncing on the edge of the bed. "I love box springs; they're much better than Faery bowers and so much better than a pallet in the King's nasty, wet dungeon..."

"John, we need to talk."

"Seeing as there's just the one bed, maybe you'll be wanting to take advantage of me, which is fine, by the way. I think I'd quite like to be taken advantage of..."

"John, you were glowing again."

"Was I?" said John, scratching his damp scalp, "I don't think that I was. I can't imagine why you think I'd be glowing."

"Presumably, it was because you were using your magic."

"Well, yes...I mean, no," the blond frowned. "Of course I had to use _some_ magic to hide from all those firefighting people...and I didn't actually mean to be seen by anyone aside from you. It's just that you surprised me by coming back, and then you surprised me by hugging me, because I though you were mad at me for being a leprechaun."

"I was talking about you glowing."

"I really don't remember glowing," said John, wrinkling his brow in confusion.

"When you found me at the fire just now, you looked like a child of about ten, and you were glowing."

"Well, now," said John, licking his lips nervously. "I don't know anything about glowing, but I did use magic to look younger. You could call it a glamour."

"So that _was_ the so-called glamour."

"Yes. Yes it was. I can change how I look through magic," said the leprechaun. "It's not that I was trying to trick you. Only, I thought you were mad at me, and then I thought, 'well, Sherlock probably wouldn't hit a child'..."

"I wasn't going to hit you, John."

"Good. That's, good," replied the blond. "But are you going to hit me now?"

"No. Stop it. I am not ever going to hurt you," said Sherlock. "And as for the glowing, I hypothesize that you glow when you use certain types of magic. Indeed, I hope that you'll humor me by allowing me to conduct controlled observations to determine the cause of this glow and..."

"I don't think most people can see me glowing Sherlock," said John. "Say…If you really can see the magic, then you're probably a seer...or maybe you have some Fay blood."

"I find that...unlikely," said Sherlock.

"Mmmmm. Maybe we can do controlled observations to determine if you have a distant Faery ancestor," said John slyly, demonstrating that he had been paying close attention to everything that Sherlock said. "And will it bother you if I use magic from time to time? I will promise not to deceive you. Which I never did, even if Mary wanted you to think that I did," added John, canting his head to one side and giving Sherlock a reproachful look.

The detective wanted to hug the leprechaun again, but feared that he might easily become distracted by John's adorableness. And there were things to be said and things to be discussed before he allowed for that sort of distraction.

"I realize that you never tricked me John," said the detective, holding up a finger to prevent the occasionally over-talkative sprite from interrupting. "I realize that your witch misled me and possibly used some kind of spell on me..."

"The Voice, she used the Voice."

"And I fell for it. Fortunately, I am a genius and I was able to see through her spell in one hour and forty-two minutes."

"Yes, you're a genius. You're brilliant!" said John admiringly. "It took me three weeks to see through her Voice the first time she used it on me," he confessed.

"Yes, but you are not a genius."

"No, I'm not."

"But you_ are _magic."

The blond nodded, "And I was wanting to know, will it bother you if I use magic...or if magic sneaks out accidentally, which it does now and again. I can't help it sometimes..."

"I wouldn't ask you to sublimate your magic all of the time. In fact, I'm sure it will come in useful when you assist me at crime scenes."

The leprechaun leapt up, "You want to keep me long enough to come on crime scenes with you? You'll even let me _help_ you on crime scenes?"

"Of course. I envision a very long association, and as The Work is very important to me, I'd like to share that with you," he added almost shyly.

"That's brilliant!" exclaimed the shorter man, throwing his damp arms around the detective. "Let's go find a crime scene right now."

"Not so fast, John," said Sherlock, holding the amorous leprechaun at arm's length. "I prefer to keep you under cover until I can ensure your safety, which leads me to this—I have questions."

"Three. I will answer three questions."

"Is this part of fairy tradition?"

"No, this is me wanting us to get in this enormous bed so we can do unspeakable things to each other. It's so sweet that you've booked a room in this luxurious inn for our first time. But there won't be a first time, if you keep asking questions, so I thought I'd limit it to three questions…."

"John, if you would stop nattering on, I could ask my questions…."

"Yes, but I'm sort of excited. I'm here with you—alone and whole—and it's May First. I need you. I want to kiss you, and touch you and to feel your skin against my skin," said John, removing his damp, over-large jumper. "And by the way, that was your first question. You only get two more."

"John..."

"Careful, don't waste your questions, Sherlock Holmes," warned John, gazing up intently from under his golden-brown lashes.

Sherlock cleared his throat and shifted his now too-tight trousers.

"John..."

"Yes, luv?" crooned John with a crooked little smile. He ran his nimble fingers up and down the detective's sides, which Sherlock found distracting.

"John, do stop that," said the detective, batting John's small, nimble hands away, "I want to know, how did your witch's house catch fire?"

"Ah, well," said John, his seductive little smile fading. "Well, now...right after you left, Faeries broke past Mary's wards and got into her cottage. I tried to fight them off with a fireplace poker. They were swinging their bronze swords around and breaking everything in sight. Of course, that got Mary very angry. She was angrier at them than she was at me, and she started slinging spells every which way...Oh!" cried John, with wide, blue eyes, as blue and guileless as a summer sky. "Did'ya hear that, Sherlock? I said she flung her spells every_ 'witch' _way."

John began to giggle. The detective's lips curled up involuntarily and a sound very much like a chuckle escaped his mouth. John collapsed onto the bed giggling uncontrollably.

Sherlock noted that John was not glowing. He still looked thirty-ish (pushing forty), with wrinkles and greying hair, and yet he was still perfectly adorable and very desirable. So much for that damned witch and her talk of glamours.

"Very well, then," said the consulting detective. "You fought off the fairies and clearly, Mary healed you."

John gasped in mock outrage. "Cheater! You are trying to get answers without asking questions!"

"Problem?"

"Well, it really isn't cricket, is it? And that was actually a question."

"John, please, just answer me?"

"Oh, fine. But no, you have it wrong in fact."

Sherlock made a face at the word 'wrong'.

"There's no need to pout, my heart," said John, drawing Sherlock's face down to press a relatively chaste kiss against the younger man's pouting lips. "Even a genius gets something wrong sometimes."

"Yes, there's always something," muttered Sherlock, who then grasped John's hands to prevent any further distractions. "You were saying, John."

John pursed his lips with dissatisfaction before continuing, "As I said, I managed to hold off the fairies with my poker, but only because it was iron and because Mary kept some of 'em busy with her witchy spells, but it was Harry who drove 'em off. _She _brought out her shotgun and peppered them with steel shot, which she purchased ages ago after we discussed how we could fight off the Fay if it ever came down to it. Harry's a crack shot, takes after her old Da." said John proudly. "Anyway, the iron sickness will keep those particular Faeries away for a few days at least. Plus, they'll reek of rust for weeks, and none of the other Faeries will have anything to do with 'em. Serves 'em right, the blue-blooded bastards, bursting into people's homes and setting fires."

"Wait, Your fairies have blue blood? No, don't answer that! That is not my question!" said Sherlock quickly.

"Yes, they do have blue blood. And that was a free answer," said John magnanimously, leaning close enough to kiss the bit of skin peeking out from under Sherlock's shirt. "And by the way, to answer your other question, the Faery knights set the house on fire on their way out—the bloody Philistines. I hope they reek of iron for ages. I hope they get boils. They might get boils, you know, from the steel shot. I could have cursed them with bad luck, which probably would have ensured boils, but I was a bit weak and..."

"John, do not remove your trousers."

"Why not? They're wet. And aren't you going to ravish me on this great luxurious bed? Or, better yet, we could ravish each other. And it's much easier to ravish each other with our clothing _off," _said the irrepressible sprite.

The consulting detective had every intention of ravishing this little blond tease. Already, he found his transport difficult to control..._but he still had questions._ He sat next to John on the bed and placed his hand over John's.

"Patience, John."

"But I've been waiting for you for two hundred years!" said John, sticking his lower lip out in a very inviting pout.

That lip mesmerized Sherlock.

The leprechaun took further advantage by licking his lip. _Enough_, his transport demanded that he take that enticing lip now. The questions could wait just a few more minutes. Sherlock leaned down, and slowly bit and then sucked John's lip into his mouth.

**A/N **Thank you to everyone who reads my story. Please consider leaving comments or reviews, because comments are more valuable to me than Faerie gold.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own BBC Sherlock nor any of the characters from the show. This is perhaps shocking to some readers, but it is the truth.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N **This was edited by my Beta, Old Ping Hai. I am grateful for her assistance and support. Any remaining errors are my own.

**Ritual Disclaimer **I still do not own the rights to Sherlock.

**Chapter 6**

As soon as Sherlock's lips met John's, the leprechaun leaned into the kiss, moaning softly in appreciation. The consulting detective tasted John's chapped lower lip—the very lip that the enticing blond kept licking. It tasted of tea and herbs, perhaps mint? The leprechaun sighed, slowly opening his mouth and snaking out his tongue to explore the taller man's lips.

John shifted closer, his hand caressing the taller man's neck, finding its way into Sherlock's hair, combing through it slowly as his mouth sought to devour the younger man.

Sherlock forced himself to pull back before he was lost in John's fairy enchantment, although his body sent off an official letter of protest at this despicable action.

John's hand stayed tangled in the taller man's curls; the tug was painfully arousing.

"Jawhnn..." said Sherlock. His deep voice rumbled rough and low, which seemed to excite the leprechaun further, and this was not at all conducive to obtaining the answers that the detective absolutely required. He cleared his throat and said in an even tone, "John, your wound is healed."

"Mmm, umm," hummed John in agreement, twisting a lock of dark hair into a knot.

"So the witch finally healed you?"

"What?"

"After I left. The witch finally healed you."

"Can't we talk later?" wheedled John, as he caressed Sherlock's face.

"No. I need answers now, John."

"Arrghhh," moaned John in frustration. "No, it wasn't Mary. It was me; I healed it. Now stop asking questions and let me…"

"What? _You? _You healed it?" said Sherlock indignantly. He stood, inadvertently dumping his little blond sprite, luckily onto the bed and not the floor. "You lied to me! You said you _couldn't_ heal yourself. You insisted on traveling to that dreadful witch's house so that _she_ could heal you!"

"I was wrong," said the sprite, as if that explained everything.

Sherlock suspected that his eyes might be bugging out comically, but John didn't seem to think he looked funny at all.

"Do you know how sexy you look with your hair all tousled about?" asked John, his voice husky with desire. The blond crawled up to his hands and knees, with a wicked grin growing on his face. "Oh. Ohhhh, I know; I could turn around, and you could take me right here, right now_. _I've always wanted..."

"Again you avoid answering me. You are always distracted or distracting me. You never stay on topic!" snapped Sherlock. "What are you trying to hide now?"

John fell back on his heels and chewed his lip in discontent. Then he muttered sadly, "I'm not tying to hide anything, my heart; I'm trying to seduce you. And it's not my fault that I'm easily distracted. I'm supposed to be easily distracted. I'm a leprechaun, and leprechauns are easily distracted."

Sherlock's determination to get to the truth was undermined by John's sad frown and his large blue eyes, which gazed forlornly up at the tall brunet.

Sherlock set his hand on the leprechaun's shoulder to reassure him and to make sure that John didn't just disappear while he got things sorted once and for all. "John, you said that you were a _man_ before you were a _leprechaun. _Surely, you are not that flighty," said Sherlock. "Besides, I thought the whole tied-to-a-treasure curse was broken and along with it your, your…your leprechaun-ness." Sherlock waved his hand as if to indicate John's leprechaun enhancement.

"Yes, the curse _is_ broken. It broke when I fell in love and grew a new heart. My old heart, which the Faery King kept in a small silver casket, became superfluous when I got the new one. I suppose the old one turned to dust or something. God, I'd have loved to see his face when _that _happened. Maybe it burst into flame. I hope it burst into flame and melted the damn box."

"John," sighed Sherlock.

"I hope it burned his sodding Faery claws."

"John," repeated Sherlock. Clearly his sprite was _very _flighty and clearly Sherlock was going to have to learn to repeat himself, well, repeatedly. It was going to be tedious—at least as tedious as life could be with a distractible magic lover. Perhaps it was something that Sherlock could learn to live with.

""What were we talking about?" asked John innocently.

"Whether the curse was broken and whether you're still a leprechaun."

"Ah. Right. Well, the new heart broke the spell, see?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he pondered this bizarre explanation.

John picked disconsolately at the cheap polyester duvet. "I didn't put it all together immediately, or I'm sure I would have told you. If I'd been paying attention, I would have noticed my new heart right away," John paused to use his dark blue eyes to good effect, "but then I was distracted, because I was bleeding to death."

Sherlock grimaced at the memory of John's brush with death. It was terrifying to imagine how close he'd come to losing his leprechaun before even getting to know him.

Sherlock also acknowledged that John clearly had the so-called gift of blarney and was willing to use it to get his own way. A trait that Sherlock had used for years, never expecting to meet someone who could turn the tables using it on the detective.

"Sherlock, I honestly didn't notice that I had a new heart or what that meant until we were at the lovely Hospital. Now _that_ was a wondrous place," said John, who'd become distracted again. "I think Hospital is more magical than Faery itself. And much more beautiful; for one thing it has very little pink in it. And also I particularly liked the X-ray machines. I have to tell you, it's one thing to read about X-ray machines in old medical journals, but to see them in action and to see real X-ray films...to see my own real heart on an X-ray film. And to see all those other X-ray films that you stole for me..."

"John, I only borrowed them. I put them all back after you were done looking at them."

"Oh yeah, you borrowed them, that's right. That was such a romantic thing to do, borrowing X-rays for me," said John in complete seriousness. "Say, can I see an X-ray of your heart some time? I bet it's beautiful."

Sherlock Holmes blinked, realizing that this was one reason that he was falling so hard for John Watson. John was the only person, aside from Sherlock himself, who'd find an X-ray of his lover's heart beautiful. They were made for each other—except that Sherlock didn't believe in such things as _destiny_ or _fate_; of course he didn't.

He glanced down at his half-undressed leprechaun who eagerly waited for an answer. John was also one of the few people who always listened to everything Sherlock said. Maybe there was such a thing as fate?

Sherlock cleared his throat and attempted to clear his bewitched mind. "Yes, I'm sure Molly can get her hands on some of my old films. Now, could you answer the question?"

"Um…um…which question was that, Sherlock?"

"You had explained that you didn't realize that you had a heart until we were at hospital and..."

"Oh!" interrupted John with a blinding smile, "that's right. We were at hospital, and you explained that the beeping device thingy was beeping in time with my heart. The heart that wasn't supposed to be there, but it was! Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. It was music to my ears. Did you know that the Fay love music. It's too bad that I croak like a frog when I sing. I did learn to play the clarinet when I was a boy, but the Fay don't have clarinets, so I had to learn to play the flute. I got pretty good on the flute too. I mean after a hundred years, I was bound to improve, right? Of course, it was nothing compared to the music that they could play. Or you. Now, _you_ play your fiddle beautifully. It's like magic, and I should know, seeing as how I am magical. Anyway, you play even better than any of the Faeries. Even better than Taliesin, who plays the harp and not a fiddle, but still…."

John paused to breathe and purse his lips, while Sherlock bit his lip to prevent a caustic comment about how his violin was definitely not a fiddle. Then John scrunched his face up in that adorable way that he had, which completely distracted the musician.

"I bet you could bewitch the Faery court with your music," said John slowly. "But then the king might take a fancy to you…and I'd have to challenge him. If I challenged the king and died in combat for you, would you still love me?" asked John in all seriousness.

"John, I would never allow that to happen. Not ever. Now could you please stay on topic?"

"I am. I'm talking about my heart..."

"And specifically, what I want to know is how you healed yourself?"

"Yes, I know, but it's to do with my heart, which I noticed was back in my chest when we were staying at that lovely hospital, which I'd like to visit again, because the food there was marvelous. I especially liked the gelatin treats. They're tangy and fruity and come in all different colors. I like how gelatin jiggles like a plump girl's breasts."

"John!"

"Will you buy me gelatin treats tomorrow?" asked the fey sprite, narrowing his eyes greedily.

"Yes! Now tell me how you healed yourself."

"Huzzah!" crowed John. "Gelatin treats! Huzzah! Huzzah!" Then the cheering blond finally noticed Sherlock's stern sidelong stare. John swallowed down any further exclamations, settling back down on the bed, while holding Sherlock's hand in a tight grip. Sherlock was uncertain when the leprechaun had grasped his hand.

"Soooo, um, right," stuttered John, "So as for the healing of my shoulder...Well, it was Mary's idea. See now, Mary may be a bit of an over-controlling, domineering bi…witch, but she's sharper than a witch's tongue. Well, she does have a witch's tongue and let me tell…you…" John must have noticed the detective's deepening frown, because the blond stopped himself and returned voluntarily to the topic at hand, "Um. So, so… after she drove you away and almost broke my new heart, by the way..." John looked up from under his blond lashes. He didn't bat them, but may as well have done, since that look made Sherlock's cold mental faculties melt like gelatin in the sun.

Sherlock wondered if the sprite knew what that look did to Sherlock. He wondered how much longer he could resist the temptation to run his lips over John's beguiling eyes, his expressive brows, his adorable up-turned nose, every inch of his face, every inch of John's body...

John smiled and licked his lower lip—clearly the enchanted man _did_ know the devastating effect he had on Sherlock and was using it to tempt the consulting detective. However, Sherlock Holmes was made of sterner stuff and he was even more stubborn than a former army medic turned fairy.

"And yet you say that Mary did _not_ heal you..." said Sherlock, urgently leading the witness, before he succumbed to the blond's come-hither looks.

"No. No she didn't. She absolutely refused to heal me unless I agreed to be her common-law husband or some such nonsense. So we argued a bit after you left. Actually, I tried to charm the old witch into drinking her own sleeping draught, which almost worked, and then she tried to use her wand to spell me into a hedgehog. It didn't work of course, although it almost did. The spell made my hair stand on end all prickly-like, and did she cackle like a witch because of that, which she is a witch anyway and…ah-um, yeah." John paused for breath and blinked at Sherlock's dark, grim glare. John wiggled his mouth as if to force his mouth to _stay on topic_. "Sooo, we argued a lot and Harry got tired of it all. That's when Harry waved a bunch of wolf's bane at Mary, it works on witches too, you know. And then my own daughter, who is also my business partner and who co-authored of several books of romantic fiction with me…well, she threatened to pour salt on my head, which was patently ridiculous. Salt burns faeries and not leprechauns, but she must have forgotten this in her rage. The thing is, I'm not certain why she was so angry with me. It's not as though it was my fault that her mother is a mean old witch…I mean, not entirely my fault. I suppose it was my fault for sleeping with Mary. Although it wasn't my fault since she used a spell on me, although I might have been tempted without it, since Mary can..."

"John, the healing?"

"Yes, well," continued John in a hurry, "Harry's ploy was a success after all. Mary backed down from trying to me into a small furry animal and decided to be a bit more helpful—mostly because she hates wolf's bane. And Mary, who as I mentioned previously is very smart…well, she pointed out that if I grew my own heart back when Paddy O'Brien died, then that meant that I must have healed myself, which incidentally would be very powerful magic, even if I don't remember doing it. Meaning that I can heal myself after all, and I never knew that I could do that. It also means that I'm a very powerful healer. You are lucky to have such a powerful healer as your soul-mate." John looked expectantly at the younger man.

Sherlock cracked a smile as John fished for a compliment. "Yes, I am lucky to have such a powerful and handsome healer for my soul-mate." Sherlock considered this and added more seriously, "I assume that your use of the word 'soul-mate' has significance beyond the usual trite expression."

"Yes, of course," said John. "It means..."

"Never mind, we'll come back to it."

"But it's important. It means we belong together..."

"Good, because I agree that we belong together. But our discussion…"

"Argh! Discussion, discussion, discussion! If we keep discussing everything, then we'll never be getting to the sex, will we?" said John slumping backwards in dejection. "The First of May will be over, and we'll still be jabbering on and on and on and on and on and on..."

"Mary said you healed yourself in order to grow a new heart, meaning that you could heal yourself?" said Sherlock, who was determined to finish this conversation and understand what he was getting himself into with a fairy lover. However, it was difficult to continue this discussion because John's entreaties had not fallen on dumb ears or unresponsive flesh.

"Yes, yes of course," muttered John. "When I got shot, I must have instinctively tried to heal myself." His speech gradually became more animated as he talked. "Naturally, I healed the more grievous wound first, which was my absent heart, not so much because I couldn't live without it, because of course, I could. That is, I could live without a heart as long as I remained cursed and as long as I stayed near the treasure. No, I needed my heart to love _you_ and to be with _you_. Now do you see how much I love you? D'you see how much I _need _you?" John licked his lips again, leaning forward and fanning Sherlock's desire.

The detective leaned forward too, taking a taste John's lips again.

John pulled the brunet down on top of him, murmuring, "Finally," and they tumbled onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and battling tongues.

Sherlock only allowed himself a brief respite in John's embrace, before he raised himself up on one arm, still lying atop the smaller man.

"Keep talking, John. You managed to heal your...h,heart?" He stuttered a bit when John nibbled his jaw.

"Hmm, well that's all," muttered John, in between the nibbling. "The sacrifice was sufficient to heal my heart, but it wasn't enough to heal my shoulder too, so that wound kept bleeding until the doctors at Hospital sewed it up." John returned to placing nips and kisses along the younger man's jaw, heading toward his ear.

"Sacrifice?" questioned the detective. "Explain."

"Paddy O'Brien of course," said John. "He fell on my old bayonet at just the right moment, and so he became the sacrifice which empowered me to re-grow my heart. Terribly ironic when you think about it—Paddy, that murderous reprobate, who tried to kill you and almost did kill me; he became the sacrifice which freed me from the curse, letting me give myself to you."

John gently caressed Sherlock's hair, untangling the very knot which he had made minutes earlier. "Not that I'm not grateful for his sacrifice," added John, "but I'm sort of glad that if someone had to die, it was someone like Paddy, who wasn't a very nice man." John paused in his discourse and his kissing. "But still, I'm just as glad that I'm not the one who actually killed Paddy. I don't like killing people; I haven't killed anyone since I became a leprechaun. To be honest, I usually try to avoid Death, although he's always been a perfect gentleman. It's just that he makes me a bit nervous sometimes, like he's going to jump me and well…you know." John gave a little shudder.

"Who? Who makes you nervous?" demanded Sherlock, pulling the blond close. He scowled, ready to defend John from this man…or fairy…or whatever.

"Death, Death makes me nervous. He's merciful, I'll grant you that, but he gives me the willies. It's so awkward having to do the polite, what with him looming over me and staring out from under that dark hood he wears. But, as I was saying, Paddy was a bad one, and if the Earth herself was willing to stab Paddy O'Brien with my rusty old bayonet, well then, who am I to complain. And really, I shouldn't speak poorly of Death. He was very considerate that night. I mean he took Paddy's dark soul and bundled him off, quick as you please. And then Death just hung about, patiently waiting for me to die or not to die. He never tried to rush me at all and didn't once leer at me as if he could see me without my clothes—which he can—I think. I mean he can see past a man's body and into his soul, so I suspect that he can see past a man's clothing to look at his goods, so to speak. But he's a professional, Death is, and I doubt that he'd mix business with pleasure. ANd I have to admit that Death was kindness itself the night I was shot, asking me if it hurt much and wondering if I needed anything? And then when the whirly-round-and-round showed up, he must have realized that I was going to pull through, because he tipped his black hood at me and smiled that death head's rictus of his, and off he went."

John pulled at his lip and wrinkled his brow in deep thought. "It really was very kind of him to wait around like that when he could have taken advantage of me, what with me bleeding to death and all. So... I suppose I should send him a note of thanks...or maybe some flowers. He likes flowers...Poor old sod, maybe I should invite him to tea."

"I suppose a note would be sufficient?" suggested Sherlock, who was not quite sure if he was ready to meet Death first hand, especially if Death was enamored of John. It was disturbing to consider that so many people, or rather supernatural beings, wanted the leprechaun. It was going to take all of Sherlock's considerable genius to beat off these rivals, both male and female.

"Mmm," hummed John, "I'm not sure a note is enough. I do think that I was meant to die that night and that means that I owe Death a favor for giving me extra time. No, it'll have to be tea and scones. Or crumpets."

Sherlock thought some more about meeting Death. He wondered what it would be like to meet Death in person. Come to think of it, the prospect was actually very exhilarating, unless Death tried to steal John. Sherlock then wondered if baritsu would be effective against the personification of death, and what would happen if Death himself died. It was a fascinating mental exercise.

"John, when we get back to London, you may invite Death to our flat, as long as he promises not to attempt to spirit you away, because then I'd have to kill him."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock," scoffed John. "I told you that Death was polite. He's a very posh gentleman, very handsome in his billowing black weeds, mind you. And he would never break the sanctity of tea time with an abduction."

"I see," said Sherlock, feeling jealousy spark inside him. "He's a gentleman is he? And he's handsome?"

"Wellll," said John. "yes. He's very handsome, when he isn't grinning like a ghoul."

"John, I may want to rescind the invitation."

"What? Why?"

"I think you should know that I am a selfish man; a possessive, jealous man."

"Oh?"

"I have no intention of sharing you with anyone."

"No. Oh no, heavens no. I'm not interested...No. I mean, Death was been very kind to me, but no, he and I...well, he doesn't really suit me...I did say that I try to avoid his company, didn't I?"

"He's made actual advances toward you, hasn't he?" demanded Sherlock, as jealousy filled his heart.

"Not exactly…"

"I see," Sherlock bit off the words, seeing it all plain as day. "John, I definitely rescind my offer to host Death. I see no reason to invite one of your admirers to tea."

"As you wish, my heart. I'll just send him some daisies," said John, as his fingers combed soothingly through the brunet's dark locks. "You know you have no reason to be jealous, luv," he continued. "Hush now, my dear heart. There will never be anyone for me except you."

"Good," said the detective.

"Good," agreed the leprechaun with a satisfied smirk. He looped his arm around Sherlock's neck to pull him down, nuzzling into his long neck to place more kisses and whispered endearments into his pale skin.

**A/N **Many thanks to everyone who has read this story so far. Very special thanks to those who have reviewed it. I truly appreciate your comments, compliments and constructive criticism. :D


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N **This was edited by my Beta, Old Ping Hai. I am grateful for her assistance and support. Any remaining errors are my own.

**Ritual Disclaimer **I still do not own the rights to Sherlock.

**Chapter 7**

It took superhuman effort, but Sherlock resisted John's attempt to take their passionate embrace even further. The younger man was determined to understand both his lover's magical abilities and his supernatural enemies, before John was attacked by another witch or goblin or fairy king or…or…or whatever. Naturally, the blond groaned in renewed frustration as Sherlock pushed himself onto his elbows.

"Why did you require a sacrifice?"

"What? What sacrifice?" cried the aggrieved leprechaun.

"You said that O'Brien was the sacrifice that provided the impetus to re-grow your heart," said Sherlock, drawing his fingers over the pink scar, which was all that remained of the bullet wound, a wound that only hours ago was still bleeding.

"That is not my best work," said John, with a sigh as long, pale fingers traced the raised rose-colored flesh. "Usually, I when I heal, there is little or no scarring, but today I was rushed and all, and now I'm stuck with an ugly scar. Not to mention, I can just tell that this is going to be one of those scars that's going to ache whenever the glass drops*."

"It isn't ugly, John. It's miraculous," murmured Sherlock, who very gently kissed the healed wound.

"It wasn't a miracle, it was magic," corrected John pedantically. "There is a big difference between the two, Sherlock. I cannot perform miracles; I know a Saint who can, but she…."

The detective pinned down the leprechaun with his steady gaze, and John's mouth closed tight.

"I wish to know whether a sacrifice is necessary for you to perform magic."

"Depends on the magic," said John petulantly.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, waiting for an explanation.

John sighed, "Yes, all right. Some magic requires sacrifices; sometimes magic can be powered by certain spells or potions or magic talismans; sometimes the power comes from within the person performing the magic. For instance, when I heal, I usually don't offer up a sacrifice, because I'm strong enough to use my own energy to do the healing. It can be a bit tiring to heal without a sacrifice, but in general, I don't like sacrifices. I especially dislike blood sacrifices, which are the most common ones. Life's blood is very powerful, you know. Of course, Mary has argued that when I use my own energy to heal, it's just another form of a sacrifice, but since it's my energy, I would rather use it than not. Howsomever, I was already a bit weak today and healing myself required a lot of energy, so I definitely needed a sacrifice or some other power to assist me. Come to think of it, I doubt if I could ever heal _myself_ without a talisman or some kind of offering because that would be using a power against itself. That might be a bit dangerous, really." John screwed his face up as he considered this.

"Then who was sacrificed?" asked Sherlock, rushing forward now that John was actually answering his questions.

"No _one_ was sacrificed. I would never sacrifice someone, on purpose and certainly not for me. You might recall that I didn't even ask for O'Brien's sacrifice. I suspect that it was the Crone who asked the Earth to stab Paddy with the bayonet. She's always had a thing for Death, and she rather likes me too so…"

"Never mind about the crone; we'll just add her to the list of all the beings who desire my leprechaun. Now, wipe that smug look off of your face and concentrate. First you said that there was a sacrifice, and now you say that there wasn't; please enlighten me."

"It's simple, there wasn't a mortal sacrifice, but Harry did cut her thumb, and she offered up some of her life's blood, even though I forbade her from doing so. Naturally, she didn't listen to me when I told her not to. I have no idea how my daughter became so headstrong. I blame Mary. And speaking of Mary, even though she was angry with me, she gave me enough ambergris to complete the healing so that Harry didn't have to bleed very much. I like ambergris much better than blood. Ambergris smells better, for one thing. Sherlock, will you buy me some ambergris?" asked John, with a disingenuous smile and another come-hither look.

"Yes, yes. Whatever you want," said Sherlock, brushing back the blond fringe from John's forehead and planting a row of kisses to smooth out the sprite's furrowed brow. "And then what happened next?"

"Well, between the three of us, we were getting my shoulder all sorted, when the thrice-cursed Fay attacked, which is why I was forced to rush the healing." John glared down at his scar. "The bloody blue-bloods tried to skewer me with their enchanted blades. I'll wager the blades were spelled so that if they pierced my heart, I'd fall under the Faery King's power again. But I didn't let them stick me with their damned sticks. Instead, I laid about with Mary's fireplace poker, which drove them back, and I even smashed a couple of their blades. And of course, Mary was ready to defend her home and spells were shooting out of her wand like nothing I've ever seen. And then in the end, Harry comes out with her shotgun and peppers the bastards with steel shot. That has to hurt, seeing as iron is poisonous to the Fay. I must say that Harry handled her gun very well. She gets that from me, Sherlock, not from Mary; I don't mind mentioning that I'm something of a crack shot. I'm pretty damn good with a bow too, or a fireplace poker or a shillelagh. I'm no good with a sword though. Well! I've answered all your questions and May the First doesn't last forever; I'd say that it's time for me to worship your body."

John's lips immediately set to worshipping Sherlock's neck, which made it difficult to think, even if Sherlock was a genius. Still, he had a few more questions.

"John, I wish to clarify an important point," said the detective, tilting his head and loosening a button on his shirt to allow John to worship more of his body even while they continued this discussion. "Although the curse was broken, are you _still _a leprechaun? To be precise, will you remain magical, as a leprechaun?"

"Hmm?" John raised his head, his pupils blown, "Magical? Well, yes. I'll always be a leprechaun and that means magical. I thought we discussed my magic already?"

Sherlock frowned; it was unlike him to repeat himself. It was unlike him to allow anyone to tempt his flesh, especially while he was gathering data; it was unlike him to allow anything to disturb the smooth running of his grey matter. Indeed, he not only allowed this disruption, but he welcomed it.

"Stop frowning, my heart. I am here and willing to do anything to make you smile," said John.

"But why? No one finds me that attractive, especially once they get to know me. Most people find me abrasive and rude."

"Ah, but I'm not most people, I'm your soul-mate. Everything you do is brilliant and beguiling, except for possibly that screeching-violin thing you do when you get upset. That sound your violin makes is like the cry of a bean sí*; makes my skin crawl, but I don't mind. Everything else you do is perfect. I will always be enchanted with you, my heart."

"You make it sound like we'll be together...forever," said Sherlock, who liked this thought even though it was impossible for anyone to stay with him for very long.

"Wellll, yessss," leprechaun said, drawing out the syllables and loosening a button on his lover's shirt. "We're soul-mates. I'll never leave you...unless you don't want me anymore. Then I'd leave of course. It would break my heart, but I would go if you want. And then I'd die, which would be a fine feather in Death's cap—which he doesn't wear a cap, but you gather my meanin'," said John wearing a dark scowl. "But I'd leave you in a beat of my new heart, if you didn't want me around. A gentleman never forces his attentions on a lady...or another gentleman."

"Thank you for clarifying that, as I certainly don't fancy myself as a lady," said Sherlock with mock sincerity. He placed his fingers under John's chin and gently raised it for a kiss. "And _you_ may stop scowling and plotting your own demise. I do not wish you to leave under any circumstances."

Sherlock let his weight rest atop his diminutive lover. Kissing a reluctant smile back on to John's face. Further snogging and some wandering hands soon restored the leprechaun's sunny grin.

"However..." said the brunet into the soft skin under John's ear.

"No, no, no!" complained the leprechaun, as his shining smile was totally eclipsed by frustration. "No more 'howevers'. No more talking. No more _discussions!_"

"However," rumbled Sherlock's baritone, "I need to understand the threat posed by your King of the Fairies and his minions."

"He's not _my Faerie King,_" spat John. "I _hate_ him. He's not a gentleman, and he's never nice. It's not that the whole Faerie Courte is rotten, because some of them are fine. The Crone is lovely; she taught me a great deal about healing. And Puck is always great fun…"

"The threat, John! Can you not stay on topic?"

"_You_ try staying on topic after living with Faeries for a couple hundred years. You think I'm flighty? You should listen to them talk, bouncing around from one thing to another like a bull pup chasing his tail...say, Sherlock, will you buy me a bull pup?"

"No. No pets."

"Please," begged John, beginning to glow faintly, as he batted his golden lashes.

"No! I do NOT want any pets. And it's no use trying to use that glamour on me, I can see you glowing and trying to use your magic to sway me."

"Fair enough," said John with a businesslike tone. The glow faded as he added, "We can talk about pets later."

"No pets ever. Now tell me when we can expect the next attack from the fairies."

John crossed his arms, looking like a disgruntled bull pup himself with his downturned lips and furrowed brow.

"It's for your own good, you little idiot," said Sherlock, boxing his leprechaun in with his arms. "Think like a soldier. When will this king of yours attack again?"

"I'm not stupid, Sherlock. I wouldn't be trying to get us naked and in bed if I thought we were about to be attacked," said John angrily. "The fact is, no fairy will be able to find me until the sun sets and rises three times. Mary made me a charm to hide me from them, because she was so very furious that they burned down her house," He dug into his trouser's pocket and pulled out an amulet.

John sniffed at the small leather sac and wrinkled his nose.

"It smells bad, like all her charms," added the sprite, shrugging and looping theleather necklace over his head. "It contains herbs and bones and probably other gruesome ingredients, like eye of newt or a bat's liver. I'm supposed to keep this amulet on my person at all times, even though it stinks, which is why it was in my pocket instead of around my neck. I definitely smell something like liver."

Sherlock ignored the adorable faces his leprechaun was making as he considered their three-day reprieve. "Three days?" muttered the detective.

"Three sunrises and three sunsets," confirmed John. 'Obviously, we have to count today's sunset as the first one, so that's only two more sunsets before the blue-blooded bastards come after us. And even though she's helping me out of spite, Mary is still pretty angry with me for falling in love with you instead of her. I think she's mad at you too for being so wonderful and smart and handsome and all; jealous she is. In fact, Mary might be just as much trouble as the Fay, at least until her temper settles down. You know what? I think it would be a good idea to head on over to the coast tomorrow and then try to get a spot on a packet-boat to England. That would put some distance between Mary and us, plus the Faeries shouldn't be able to find me once I leave Eire. They can't cross the ocean you know." John canted his head a bit. "Of course there'll be different tribes of Faeries in England, but their clans won't want to help the Irish clans, because they'd rather fight each other, than work together to capture a single renegade leprechaun...even if he is a mighty healer like me. What are you doing, Sherlock?"

"You said that the damned fairies can't chase you over the Irish Sea."

"Yes, they cannot cross water. Even bridges and ferries over rivers are well-nigh impossible for them," said John, leaning over Sherlock's shoulder as he sat on the edge of the bed, texting rapidly on his mobile phone. "In fact, it was over a hundred years ago, when Puck, who you might recall was great fun, well, he dared me to build a raft...to...to…Wait, you're typing about Aer Lingus on your all-in-one, intelligent mobility telephone, and Aer Lingus is a famous aero-plane company. I've seen their great flying ships sailing across the sky."

"Yes, I'm getting us tickets right now, via the Internet."

"I know all about the Internet," said John. "They have Internet in the village, although I've been reliably informed that it sucks, because it's so slow that you lag if you try to play Halo, which is a game with a giant warrior who wears colorful armor and who shoots fantastic-looking creatures. I used to watch some of the lads playing the game, even though they say they can't play it because of the lagging. I liked all the explosions and the blue lady; she looked like a water sprite."

"Mm," replied Sherlock.

"You can ask the Internet Google questions and get amazing answers within seconds, which is pretty fast for a slow, sucky Internet connection, isn't it? Also, I've noticed that some of Google's answers are wrong. Oh and you can buy things on the Internet, but only _if_ you have credit card, which of course I do not," said John, who had by now draped himself over Sherlock's back, wrapping his arms tightly around Sherlock's lean torso. "I think your mobility phone is much better than the ones the villagers have. I think your Internet connection is better too—no lagging. Why is that, Sherlock? And do you ever watch porn on your mobility phone, because you can Google porn using the Internet."

Sherlock let John's patter flow over him as he purchased the airline tickets using one of Mycroft's accounts.

"You are buying tickets? To actually fly in an aero-plane," asked John, his face lit up like a Christmas tree. "For me too? I'm coming too?"

Sherlock bestowed the leprechaun with a face that silently shouted, 'Obviously.'

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Mrs. Watson's son flying in an aero-plane to Heathrow Airport!" John's worry lines deepened. "Where's Heathrow Airport? Is it across the sea? Do they speak English or Gaelic or French? I used to know French, but I forgot most of it. I'm sure some of the Heathrovians will know Latin; every educated person learns Latin. You know, I bet they do speak English. Heathrow is English, isn't it?"

Sherlock completed the purchase then turned to look at the face now pressed next to his, as John peered at the phone's small screen, "You don't know where Heathrow is, do you?"

"Should I?" asked John, biting his lip and blushing in embarrassment.

"No...I suppose not," said Sherlock, reminding himself that his enchanted leprechaun was a former army medical officer, who was born two centuries ago and who had only imperfectly kept up with the changing world. "Heathrow is in west London. I thought we would go directly to our flat in London."

But now Sherlock reconsidered. The bustling airport would undoubtedly astound and possibly overwhelm the leprechaun. The modern city of London would certainly overwhelm the little blond. Sherlock raised two fingers to his lips, thinking.

"A flat in London? That sounds lovely. I never had a flat. Harry had a flat when she went off to college in Dublin. I didn't see her but once during those years. I think it's splendid that they let girls go to college now. Harry was so smart that it would have been a shame if she had to stay home and tend house for some berk, not to mention she doesn't much care for men." said the blond. "I never lived in London, but I'm sure I will like it if you're there. Will we ride in more cabs? I like cabs. Do you have an auto-mobile? Can I drive it?"

"But before we go to London, perhaps a stint in the country would be advisable."

"But what about the aero-plane?"

"We shall fly into Heathrow, then take a car to the countryside."

"An auto-mobile car or a railroad car? I never rode in a railroad car. Can we ride in a railroad car to the countryside?"

"It will be a rental car, an automobile," said Sherlock, kissing his leprechaun's cheek absently, "I shall have to ask Mycroft for a favor."

"Mycroft is your fat brother and your arch enemy and the British government and you don't like asking him for favors," said John, who had clearly been listening closely when Sherlock had complained about Mycroft to Lestrade as they tracked down Paddy O'Brien. "And why are you asking him for a favor?" asked John.

"It's necessary," said Sherlock, "And I find that I do not mind asking Mycroft for a favor when you require it."

"Really? That's good," agreed John. "You are asking him for papers. Why does he need to get me all these papers? I'm clearly British; any one can hear it. Do I really need all those special identity numbers and special papers? And how can your fingers push all those tiny buttons so quickly? Ohh, he's answering! Your fat brother is answering you with little texts. It's like magic. It's Internet magic. What does he mean that you owe him three cases? Cases of what? Wine?"

"Yes, you do need those papers to prove who you are. You need identification to do most anything nowadays."

"They'll be fake papers and I'll feel like a spy," said John. "I'm not sure I'll like that."

"An official identity will be necessary if you're going to accompany me to London."

"Oh! Oh, I'll use the papers of course, luv," assured John quickly. "Anything you want; as long as I can be with you."

Sherlock rewarded the leprechaun with another kiss. "And the cases refer to the Work. I will have to solve three of his cases in return for your identity papers, which will be waiting for us at the airport. He will also rent a cottage for us in Sussex," explained Sherlock, patting the blond's bare arm, which was still tightly wrapped around him. "Since he isn't demanding a case in exchange for the house, I suspect that it's a trap. He's going to insist on meeting you. You have my permission to curse him with bunions if he bothers us.

"Sherlock!" muttered John reprovingly, although he didn't refuse the idea out of hand.

"Oh, and his text says he's renting you a car. Can I have a turn driving your rented car?"

"No," said Sherlock instantly, raising his brows as he ensured that John was paying attention. "You will not attempt to drive the rental car—or any other car—or any vehicle at all. I want you to give me your word on this," demanded Sherlock, who had a vivid imagination and who could imagine the leprechaun behind the wheel of a car, barreling down the road while nattering on about crones and fairies.

John sighed, and rested his head on the brunet's shoulder. "Yes, all right. I won't drive a car. It still sounds wonderful," said the leprechaun, breathing soft kisses against Sherlock's neck. "And will we solve crimes in Sussex?" asked John.

"We will if we're lucky," said the detective.

"Mmm," hummed the leprechaun happily. "That's very all right then."

Sherlock checked his phone one last time before turning around and taking John into his arms. "We will fly back to England tomorrow morning, long before your fairies come after us. On the way to the airport, I shall purchase some clean clothes for both of us. I will not risk returning to that village to retrieve my belongings, in case your fairies are lurking about. If Lestrade hasn't returned to London already, perhaps he will collect my belongings. I should hate to lose that violin; it's my second favorite instrument."

"You are going to buy me clothing?" asked John. "And you bought me **a ticket** to ride on a flying aero-plane? In fact, you've already paid for the tickets, haven't you?"

"Yes, of course..." said Sherlock, trying to kiss the squirming leprechaun.

"Then you've gifted me."

"Obviously."

"You've gifted me. And now I really am yours."

Sherlock blinked. "John, you keep going on about me buying you things. It means something…special?"

"Of course it means something special. It means everything. It's how things are done. At least, it's how things are done in Faery. I have to be honest, sometimes I forget how things are done here...because I've spent most of my time there."

"I understand that," said Sherlock. "But the significance of buying you a gift?"

"Well, it's like a bride price, isn't it?" said John. "Except I'm not strictly a bride. Still, you've paid the price, and now I'm yours...unless...you don't want me."

"Idiot. Of course I want you," said Sherlock, staring into John's dark blue eyes. "I'm glad that you are mine. But John, don't you have to reciprocate? Do you need to buy me something?"

"Don't be silly, Sherlock. Only one of us can be the bride. Of course, as I said, I'm not really going to be a bride. For one thing, I won't wear a dress, not even for you," John spoke very seriously. "Besides, I already made you a heart and gave it to you. That's worth quite a lot in Faery, and it would be gross excess for me to gift you more just now. Balance is very important, especially when magic might get involved."

"Ah," said Sherlock, whose vision suddenly blurred as if with tears at the thought of John giving his heart into Sherlock's keeping. Fortunately, the detective never cried, so he knew his eyes weren't really tearing up.

"But even though you've gifted me with tickets, I still want you to buy me a gelatin treat tomorrow," said John gravely. He wrapped his arms even tighter around the detective, and planted a kiss on his lips.

Sherlock returned the kiss, starting at the corner of John's mouth then moving towards the middle. They leisurely explored each other's mouths and tongues, as their arms held each other close.

The detective eventually paused to murmur into his leprechaun's mouth, "And why...should I purchase a gelatin snack for you, John? Does it carry a special significance too?"

John stopped to look curiously at his detective. "What significance could a gelatin treat possibly have? We're just going to eat it. Gelatin is a wonderful treat, and it will remind us of all the other delicious hospital food."

"You are a very strange man, John Watson," said Sherlock, shaking his head.

"It's probably because I'm not really a man; I'm a leprechaun. I don't understand how a genius like you keeps forgetting that," said John, climbing onto the taller man's lap and finally unbuttoning the rest of his shirt. "I'm your leprechaun, and I want to have carnal knowledge of you right now."

"Mmmmm, yes," said Sherlock, toppling backwards. As he fell, he pulled the leprechaun on top of himself, losing himself in the magic of John's kisses and the glow of John's love.

**A/N**

*** **(When the glass drops) is an old-fashioned way to refer to changes in the weather. It's based on old-fashioned mercury and glass barometers, which rise and fall based on changes in air pressure, preceding storms etc.

* "bean sí'" is Celtic for banshee according to my supernatural sources—and possibly Wikipedia. (I know, I know; it's a bit pretentious of me to use Celtic when I know nothing about the language.) (So sue me.)

**Thank you** for reading this story. I hope that you will consider leaving comments or constructive criticism in a review. I would love to hear from you. :D


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N **Once again, I find myself apologizing for an unseemly delay.

Also, a warning: this is where the story earns its **M Rating.**

I would like to thank Old Ping Hai for her expert editing. However, I made many changes after she proofed my work, and all errors are my own.

Finally, I understand no Celtic whatsoever, yet I pretentiously used two phrases that I found on the Internet. If I have made an error, please let me know and I will fix it.

A chroí means my heart.

A ghrá means my love.

**Disclaimer **I do not own the rights to Sherlock or any characters from Sherlock.

**Chapter 8**

The leprechaun's hand tangled in Sherlock's curls, pulling him into a bruising kiss before sweeping his tongue into Sherlock's waiting mouth. The detective felt calloused fingers grip his neck and scalp, while magical lips bewitched him with deep, languid kisses.

Generally speaking, Sherlock became annoyed when people touched him. He hated hugs and kisses and avoided cuddling like the plague. On the few occasions when he was forced to give into his transport's demand for sexual gratification, the intercourse was quick, perfunctory, and he always made sure that he'd never see his sexual partner again.

But it was different now. He liked John's touch. Oh yes, he actually needed John's touch more than he had needed his seven percent solution. He craved John's touch from the tiniest brush of lips to a full body embrace. Sherlock loved the feel of his leprechaun pressing up against him. The skin on John's chest was almost hot–almost feverish, and the golden fuzz on John's chest tickled Sherlock's bare skin deliciously. Then there was the hard evidence of John's arousal, which was currently digging into Sherlock's hip. The many glorious sensations made it seem like Christmas in springtime.

One of John's small hands dropped from combing through his hair and gently caressed Sherlock's long jaw, moving over a sharp cheekbone and teasing his ear. John touched Sherlock tenderly, reverently as if Sherlock were the great prize and not the other way around. Sherlock caught John's roving hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing each fingertip one by one, finally sucking on the index finger slowly, deliberately, wordlessly showing John that Sherlock treasured his leprechaun.

One of them moaned with delight, and then they both crashed together for another kiss. Tongues tangling in John's mouth and then in Sherlock's then back to John's mouth.

Sherlock relished the taste of his leprechaun's mouth with its hints of tea, mint and summer breezes, although a tiny rational remnant of the genius's great brain wondered how one could taste a breeze. The less rational part of Sherlock, the part that had once wanted to be a pirate, told his logical half to stuff itself in a mind closet for the foreseeable future.

The World's Only Consulting detective investigated his lover with his hands. It seemed as if Sherlock couldn't feel enough of John as fast as he needed to, and his hands roamed frantically, trying to explore and catalogue all of John at once. He felt John's hair (silky, smooth—too short, must convince the blond to let it grow out a bit). He caressed his sprite's face (soft skin with small scars and scratchy bristles—John needs to shave) and mouthed over his neck (stubbly in spots, otherwise surprisingly soft and oh so vulnerable. Just waiting for teeth to mark the fine canvas of his skin).

Sherlock coiuldn't resist a blank canvas. He mouthed at some of the tender flesh under John's jaw, finally biting hard in order to leave a bruise. John gasped in pain and pleasured passion. Sherlock smirked without lifting his lips from John's exposed throat, and then sucked hard over the bite, posting his claim for all to see. 'Look,' the love bite proclaimed, 'this is Sherlock's leprechaun.' Perhaps it would keep everyone away from _his leprechaun, _especially all those supernatural beings who desired his John—from that horrible little witch to the so-called gentleman, Death, and not forgetting the fairy king, who had, after all, imprisoned John and then stolen John's heart.

Having marked his leprechaun's succulent skin with what promised to be a lovely, lurid bruise, his lips traveled slowly back over the stubbled skin to reach John's soft, waiting lips, where John yielded to Sherlock's insistent tongue.

Meanwhile Sherlock's hands continued to investigate of their own volition, discovering details like the fine, scattered hair over the leprechaun's arms and the many scars which marked John's chest, arm and back.

Sherlock's hands only stopped their restless motions when he grasped John's buttocks and squeezed none too gently, eliciting a delicious-sounding groan from his lover. He squeezed again, appreciating the firm muscles and John's writhing pleasure.

The taller man sighed in contentment, moving his hands to grasp bony hips, repostioning the pliable leprechaun so that he could nuzzle, kiss and bite under John's perfect little ears (which did _not_ stick out too far, Mary's comments notwithstanding).

Sherlock inhaled deeply, luxuriating in the unique out-of-doors scent of John. The leprechaun's hair smelled of grassy sunlit meadows, his skin held the scent of sand, and John's under arms held the tannin-rich musty smell of a forest floor. The detective also discovered that John was _very_ ticklish under his arms. As Sherlock sniffed and snuffled the blond's sensitive underarm skin, John snorted, squeaked and squirmed irresistibly.

The leprechaun's infectious high-pitched giggles filled the room. Sherlock loved that sound and tickled John some more, just to keep the tenor's laughter ringing in his ears. Oddly, even John's laughter had a scent all its own, reminding the detective of dewey herbs, crushed under bare feet—under John's ridiculously small bare feet.

John old beyond any man born yet boyish, practical and yet the embodiment of nature, tangible and eldritch—and all at the same time. The genius's rational mind formally rebelled at these ludicrous notions, railing against these ridiculous flights of fancy, until the detective recognized Mycroft's annoying voice in his logical side. Rational Sherlock (along with mental Mycroft) was temporarily banished to the mind palace cellar, so that it (they) couldn't spoil his pleasure.

John's giggles petered out as he gasped for breath while his short, sturdy arms held Sherlock aloft, away from John's ticklish spot. Sherlock smiled, looking into dark blue, adoring eyes, and John grinned back.

Sherlock kissed his beloved sprite and threw away the key to his mental cellar. Perhaps he'd never want to be rartional ever again.

Being compact in size, John had to wriggle down to reach Sherlock's neck. John worshiped Sherlock with kisses and bites, which were less savage than Sherlock's. Apparently he was unwilling to mar his partner with lurid love bites. And all the while the leprechaun murmured reverence and devotion into the brunet's long, pale throat.

Sherlock lent half an ear, listening to John's pillowtalk. He might have been uttering so-called sweet nothings, that's what people did, don't they? Then again, maybe John was juat babbling; or they might have been prayers or even incantations—the genius could hardly tell, as most of it was uttered in some foreign tongue which was possibly Celtic. Later, much later, he would have to research and learn this language—was it the language of the fairies? He filed that question away and concentrated on John and all these wonderful sensations.

The taller man ran his hands up and down his lover's back. His fingers danced lightly over the skin then pressed down deliberately, mapping bones and muscles; then they skimmed back to the surface again, discovering many more raised scars that were slightly cool to the touch. There were far too many scars. Mostly they were smooth and hard—old scars, whose provenance Sherlock didn't know–yet. The detective _would_ eventually discover the source of these past injuries, and more importantly, he would see to it that John Watson was properly protected from further harm, now and forever. Feeling long thick stripes that spoke of a lash wielded with a heavy, cruel hand, the London-based detective wondered if it was too late to plan revenge against the person—or being—who had punished _his _John with a bloody whip. That thought was filed away too.

Sherlock was jolted back to the matter at hand when John groaned into Sherlock's shoulder as their hips rocked together. He found that his hands were once more clutching tight buttocks that pushed back and _wriggled _enticingly into his strong grip.

'Mm," hummed Sherlock, squeezing those lovely mounds of flesh. He didn't mind placing a few more judicious bruises on his leprechaun. Marking John's buttocks seemed only prudent...and delightfully naughty.

Apparently, John didn't mind either because he hummed a breathy little, "Mmmmm," in approval when Sherlock's large hands kneaded his arse properly.

The leprechaun rocked and circled his hips while his mouth worked its way back up peppering the taller man's jaw with more proof of his adoration.

"Beautiful, gorgeous, brilliant man," John breathed into the skin under the brunet's ear, then, "My brilliant heart. Heart o' gold, " he murmured into the shell of his ear. John's praise once more became unintelligible as he nibbled the ear tenderly and his words lapsed into that other language. The leprechaun's hips also continued their seductive dance, circling around and around, grinding against Sherlock's arousal.

"And you…" gasped the detective, "you too are beautiful to me…John."

Maybe Sherlock wasn't very good with pillowtalk, because John began to giggle again. "Me?" John, "Me? That's silly." He sat up, tumbling Sherlock aside. As he held his sides and laughed. "I'm not beautiful. I'm not pretty at all," he gasped in between laughter. "I was always plain, and now I'm just an old scarred soldier and…"

"Idiot," growled Sherlock, grabbing an arm possessively. "You are beautiful. You are incredibly beautiful to me. You are the most gorgeous man I have ever met, and you are mine, you said so."

John's laughter faded, his pupils dilating anew and leaving his eyes as dark as the night sky. John licked his lips again, and bit his lower lip, which glistened and beckoned with unspoken promises.

Sherlock hooked a long arm around his John's neck, tugging him to sprawl across the brunet's lean, broad chest. He claimed John's lips, sucking on the lower one, the one that kept teasing him—the one that begged to be bitten. So he bit it, sucked on it and bit it again.

John clutched the detective's arms like a drowning man. He moaned into Sherlock's demanding mouth, murmuring something in his alien tongue.

'It _must_ be the fairy's language,' thought Sherlock. Normally, he'd be curious and driven to find out all that he could about the language that John was using. However he was not curious enough to interrupt his exploration of the leprechaun's mouth. So he captured John's words in his own mouth and returned them with his tongue, plunging in, devouring John's exquisite taste and exchanging it with his own.

Sherlock felt the need to possess his elusive sprite and he rolled them over, so that he was now on top. They broke their lip lock to grin at one another. and then with his usual debonair grace, Sherlock loosened his belt and trousers with one hand, while caressing John's chest. Ah, John's nipples were sensitive, he noted. The detective smoothly lowered his zipper as he seduced the other man using only his glittering eyes.

John was eager to assist, and suddenly, Sherlock found that it was difficult to remove his close-fitting trousers while straddling a squirming leprechaun whose not so helpful hands kept getting in the way.

The brunet shifted his weight to slide the trousers past knobby knees. John twisted and tugged on the trousers too, and managed to entangle Sherlock in his hand-tailored clothing.

"John, let go…let go of my trousers! John, you're making it worse," complained Sherlock, who kicked his legs in the air to free himself. John giggled impishly as the brunet flailed about.

Sherlock's face became a study in mingled irritation and mirth. He turned away from the ludicrous little leprechaun in a vain attempt to preserve his dignity.

The brilliant genius quickly deduced that there was nothing for it but to roll off the bed to free himself of his knotted clothes. He rolled aside and shimmied and hopped in a decidedly undignified dance, trying to pull down his too-tight trousers. The leprechaun chortled gleefully, while effortlessly removing his own oversized trousers and tossing them into a corner.

Despite his irritation and no little embarrassment, Sherlock found John's laughter infectious; eventually his deep-throated chuckles mingled with John's boyish giggles and the taller man smiled broadly as he climbed back onto the bed, straddling his rosy-cheeked sprite.

Sherlock gazed down, admiring his prize. John truly was beautiful to the love-starved detective. His open, honest face glowed with love and adoration. As far as Sherlock was concerned, fairy glamour could not have made John Watson any more beautiful that he already was.

Sherlock's gaze traveled from his lover's tousled blond-brown-grey hair to glittering midnight-blue eyes to the flushed skin that covered his compact form. His eyes meandered south, stopping at the sight of his leprechaun's tumescent arousal.

"Gorgeous," murmured the besotted human Sherlock. "You are breathtaking," he said to the enticing man, who sprawled shamelessly beneath him. Sherlock slowly stroked himself relieving the painful pressure of his desire as his mind whirled with all the ways that he wanted John.

John's laughter cut off and his smile faded as he watched Sherlock touching himself.

Meeting his leprechaun's hungry stare, the detective's lips turned up into a wicked little smirk. He loomed over the blond, dragging his flesh across John's. The leprechaun arched up, groaning as flesh met flesh at last. Sherlock growled in response and then lowered his head to once again ravage the smaller man's neck like a starving man at a feast.

"Yesss, oh yes," crooned John, sliding his hands down the younger man's sides, caressing, searching, honoring his beloved.

The leprechaun reached further down, partly encircling their members with one hand.

"Oh God…yess."

"Please."

And, "More, more," they murmured to one another.

"Mine."

"Ohh, Gaawwwd."

"My heart. My love."

"Mine, Say you are mine."

"Yes."

"Forever!"

"Yes."

"Yes," poured from their mouths, as skin ignited skin and every touch inflamed the other.

And the friction was good, so very good, thought the detective, as they rutted within the confines of John's hand.

Sherlock, supporting his weight on one elbow, used his free hand to hold his lover's head still as he attacked John's mouth again, taking in the hot, sweet taste of John, the taste of summer storms and the wind-swept downs.

The leprechaun parted his lips, welcoming Sherlock's tongue, sucking on it, twisting their tongues together. They shared desperate breaths, John swallowing the taller man's rumbled groans, Sherlock swallowing John's garbled endearments in English and that fairy language.

"I have oil!" announced John, seemingly apropos of nothing.

"Ermm," said the genius, "What?"

'Oil. It's what you humans use…when buggering one another, isn't it?" asked John rather breathlessly. "I remember from when I was in the army; one heard rumors, you know? And I heard that the lads used oil. Only I never knew a man. Back in the day—when I was human, you understand, it was very illegal to lie with another man, and I was never really in love with any man so much as to want to risk one of us going to prison or hanging on the gibbet. I just kept to the wenches back then. But now it's legal, and I am in love with you, and you gifted me so we need to consummate the bond. So, we can use the oil which I borrowed just in case," ended John hopefully, waving a half empty bottle of olive oil in front of Sherlock's face.

"Ah. Um. Ah," said the normally incisive genius.

"I borrowed it after Mary's house burnt down, from one of the neighbors. In case we…well...you do want to sodomize me, don't you? said John, rising up on one elbow and narrowing his eyes as if doubting Sherlock's desire.

Sherlock thought John's doubt was ridiculous, given the size of Sherlock's erection. Still, the detective hadn't thought they were ready for _this_ step. He'd thought perhaps later…but then again, he did want to sodomize the leprechaun who was frowning hard enough to turn his forehead into a washboard; he wanted to sodomize the little sprite all the way into tomorrow. But safety first…

"We don't have condoms, John," said Sherlock, trying to caress the frown off his lover's face.

The frown did indeed disappear, but only because the leprechaun had a new thought, "Oh! Condoms! No, we don't need condoms, love. I can't get pregnant tonight, and we are both perfectly healthy…"

"I am ill-suited to being the practical, safety-minded man in any discussion; however, until we are tested…"

"I'm a healer. I've been a healer since before your parents were born. And today I proved that I am a very _powerful_ healer. And I'm telling you, as a very powerful healer, that we are both perfectly healthy."

"And you can't tell me that you are magically able to detect bacteria and viruses," Sherlock disdainfully waggled his fingers, "which didn't even exist in your lexicon two hundred years ago."

"Bollocks!" grumbled the now-affronted very powerful healer. "I most certainly _can_ detect those tiny animicules that you call germs. And I can heal them. I've been healing the many maladies of Venus for centuries, including the ones caused by little tiny bits like AIDS. I'll have you know that I healed a local lad who had AIDS, in exchange for some books and a kiss from his mum; she had a lovely smile, Moira did. I also healed a werewolf who had AIDS in exchange for which he agreed not to eat me."

"Really?" asked Sherlock, ignoring the casual reference to werewolves, "I wouldn't have thought that you were even aware of AIDS."

"That village was a bit remote, Sherlock, but it wasn't 'off the grid' as you modern folk like to say," said John, looking pleased with his modern turn of phrase.

"The point is that I can tell you whether you are harboring any diseases, which you are not," said John. "It's actually fairly easy to detect disease in humans; it's is a bit harder to detect in werewolves and the Fae, but I've gotten the hang of it over the years. I recall that the werewolf, the one who had AIDS, presented a bit of a challenge, but I..."

"John."

"Yes?"

"I will trust in your assessment. Forget the condoms."

'Yes!"

"And we will use the olive oil although it will make you smell like a salad."

"Salad?" repeated John, frowning at the implied insult. "Well, _excuse me_. I'm sorry that I didn't have the opportunity to borrow a more appropriate lubricant for buggery, what with having to heal myself of a bullet round to the shoulder and what with having to fight off the bloody blue-blooded, sword wielding Faeries and then having to keep out of the way of the Emergency Response Personnel, who kept wanting to put me in an ambulance with an orange blanket over my shoulders. That's what they call themselves, by the way. Emergency. Response. Personnel. This fiery wench got all tetchy when I called her a fireman, which is when I finally gave up and went unseen and…"

"John."

"Hmm?"

"Give me the oil now."

"Oh, God, yes!" gasped John, thrusting the bottle of salad oil at Sherlock. Trembling with excitement, the blond sprite began kissing every available inch of his lover's skin. Neck, jaw, chest, nipples (which tickled), arms and wrists were worshipped by John's eager lips. He wanted to kiss Sherlock's hands too, but they were busy with the oil.

John's attentions were pleasing and distracting, but the younger man was now determined to, as John liked to say, bugger his leprechaun. He resisted the lure of his his lover's kisses long enough spread oil over his fingers. He spread oil onto John's perineum and began to gently massage the sensitive skin.

"Oh! Oh, yes…" murmured John, hiking his hips up.

Sherlock took his time, enjoying the feel of the oil sliding over John's skin, especially when he began to circle the pucker of John's entrance. John seemed to enjoy the sensation too as he lay almost bonelessly. Only one of the leprechaun's smaller hands continued to play with Sherlock's hair, the other hand was clenching the sheets tightly, as if to ground himself.

"Oh, my heart," murmured the sprite, "Take me now…please."

Sherlock shook his head no, "Not yet, John. Not until you're ready."

"But…"

"Shoosh!" said Sherlock, surprising himself with the use of such a nonsensical word. John only scowled at being shooshed.

Sherlock recalled a few instances when he had suffered discomfort when bottoming and did not wish to cause similar pain his impatient golden leprechaun. Of course he would go slow. In the meantime, his free hand began to rub oil over a hard, pink, very sensitive nipple, distracting John from the delay. Hopefully, it would also distract him from the burn of the imminent penetration.

The detective added the warning, "John, this might hurt a bit…"

"No, it won't."

Smiling at his brave and endearingly eager ex-soldier, Sherlock slowly pressed the tip of his finger inside.

John gasped. "Oh! Oh! It does hurt. Bloody…Oh, bloody hell!" John grunted and panted in pain, his face crinkling in dismay. Then, before Shrelock could change his mind, the sprite quickly added, "A bit. It does hurt…just a bit…but I've had worse. And it's…um…getting better. Yes, it's all good now."

Clearly, the leprechaun was worried that Sherlock would refuse to continue, which was in fact a real possibility, because Sherlock had promised himself to protect his leprechaun.

"No, no, no. Don't stop, my heart. Please. Please don't stop," babbled the leprechaun, "but maybe just go…kind of slow, yeah?"

The World's Only Consulting Detective did not stop, although he was sorely tempted. He did pause until John was no longer biting his lip. Only then did he press on very, very slowly.

Initially, Sherlock could see that the leprechaun only feigned enjoyment, and Sherlock was ready to end this farce and pleasure his lover some other way. And, being a genius, Sherlock could readily think of twenty-six different ways to pleasure his enchanted lover just using himself and the materials at hand. No, make that twenty-seven ways.

Then his fingers, which now numbered two, bent and curled, finding John's sweet spot.

The leprechaun cried out softly, once more using his alien speech. John stared at Sherlock from under his lust filled, half-closed eyes, writhing sensuously under Sherlock's ministrations, before finally whispering in English, "Oh, I never…I never knew…how wonderful...Please, please, my heart, a chroí. Ahh, pleaaase, please…"

John drove himself down on the brunet's fingers, twisting as he sought to assuage his need, yet he never made a move to touch his own red, engorged flesh. Tossing his head from side to side, he begged between breaths using a polyglot of English, badly pronounced French and what was almost certainly the fairy's language and a varient of Gealic, thought Sherlock.

Sherlock's very responsive lover had been reduced to pleading for release in gibberish, but Sherlock easily deduced exactly his gorgeous man required. He rubbed his finger tips once again over the nerve-laden gland, forcing John to shudder and spread his legs wider.

Sherlock ached with need; his own throbbing member was hard as carbon steel. Seeing his leprechaun undone, hearing him beg, inflamed the younger man's desire into burning agony.

He _would_ have this man…_his leprechaun_…now. The twenty-seven other ways of pleasing John would have to wait. Need was paramount. His preparation of John must be completed immediately; Sherlock had to claim his lover with an urgency that eclipsed any other need that he'd ever had. But he couldn't hurt his precious sprite, and he had to accomplish this without coming prematurely and ruining their first night of sex. He couldn't bear to think of John's possible disappointment or, worse, John's possible contempt if Sherlock ejaculated prematurely.

For a few moments, the World's Only Consulting Genius forced himself to ignore John's wandering caresses and the sight of his beautiful sweat-slick golden body, which John offered willingly—indeed, wantonly. Instead, Sherlock distracted himself back from the edge. He thought about twenty-seven ways to sabotage Mycroft's diet, while completing his lover's preparation. The detective visualized icing and cake crumbs defiling one of Mycroft's ridiculously expensive three-piece suits, and all the while, Sherlock's fingers delved, scissored and opened his lover, carefully ensuring that Johnwould suffer no pain when his lover took him at last.

Sherlock had just decided on his first move against Mycroft. It lacked subtlety, but it would be effective. Sherlock would enroll his sibling in the Cake of the Month Club. Immediately after making this decision, he also deemed that his sweet lover was ready. His long musician's fingers had played John with unerring precision, opening him while teasing him with glancing touches over his sweet spot.

The sprite also felt that he was ready; he gripped both of Sherlock's arms, pulling himself up and gasping, "Now…it's time. Do it! Do it now!"

Sherlock nodded with a an upward twist of his lips. It was indeed time. Even the mental giant could wait no longer. The brunet slowly removed his fingers, so as not to hurt John; the sight of his fingers withdrawing from the blond was entrancing and frankly obscene.

"It _is_ time," he growled, holding his face just inches away from John's. "It is most definitely time. You are _mine _John Watson."

John's eyes lit up with a feral mixture of hunger and adoration, gasping out a breathy, "Yes! Yours. A chroí, yours!"

Sherlock pushed his lover back down and poured more oil over John's reddened entrance and over his own swollen member. His strong hands tugged at John's hips, raising them onto a pillow and pushing John's legs to further to each side.

But Sherlock hesitated. What if John wasn't _quite_ ready? He couldn't bear to hurt this man whose skin bore countless scars; hadn't John been hurt enough in the past week, let alone over the past two hundred years?

"Sherlock!" John demanded.

"John, I don't want to hurt you," said Sherlock softly.

And the leprechaun blinked. His mouth moved, unable to speak in his confusion. Then he raised a hand to caress the younger man's cheek. "You…you're worried about hurting me?"

"Of course!" snapped Sherlock, blushing with irritation and embarrassment.

This was awkward, thought the detective. John lay open and inviting and Sherlock was kneeling between his legs, with his member resting heavily, obscenely on John's thigh, and John seemed ready for another discussion? Why did his leprechaun always have to get distracted?

"John, perhaps we could continue…"

"You _care_," murmured John, as if he were the one bewitched, "actually _care _about me."

"Idiot! Of course I care!" growled Sherlock. "I wouldn't be here, preparing to roger you otherwise."

"Oh, my dearest heart," John whispered. "I love that you care, and I'm ready…I'm so rea…Wait, roger me?" John raised his head—distracted again! "Roger? Is that a modern term for…"

"…sex?" Sherlock impatiently finished the question. "Yes, and if you can stop nattering on, I will be able to thoroughly roger you."

"Oh God, yes. Roger me now," John earnestly suggested, tilting his hips up in blatant invitation.

"You _will_ tell me if I'm hurting you," Sherlock demanded.

John nodded; as his hands reverently slid up and down Sherlock's long, lean arms.

The taller man bent low, rewarding his sprite with a fierce, open-mouthed kiss. Their tongues met in another faux battle, as Sherlock's aching member slowly breached John's nether entrance.

Both men gasped into each other's mouths. From his shut-eyed grimace and ecstatic groan, Sherlock deuced that his lover had gasped in pain-tinged pleasure. Sherlock had gasped because the glide of his flesh into John's heat had nearly undone him. So the younger man instinctively paused for several breaths, allowing them each to adjust to this consummation.

The ex-army doctor moved first. His breath released in a shuddering sigh, and John began to slowly drive himself onto Sherlock's rigid flesh. The detective watched in a haze of arousal and wonderment as his flesh slipped into this miraculous being.

The slide was tortuously good, bringing more painful arousal and a sense of imminent relief. Sherlock lost himself to sensation as he buried himself in his beloved. Heat and pressure engulfed him with bliss, as he finally drove home, and their groins met—skin kissing skin.

Sherlock sighed, and slowly pulled back until he was nearly out. Then he pushed back in, biting his lip to keep from shouting in victory against all his challengers (i.e. anyone who might possibly be on the List of Beings Who Had Shagged John or Wanted to Shag _Sherlock's _John) because John was now _his_. Sherlock would give him up to no one.

He also bit down on his lip because the slight pain helped to keep his climax at bay.

"John," he whispered," raising his eyes to John's face.

Dark blue eyes met his, glowing with an eldritch fire.

Sherlock found beauty and hunger in his leprechaun's eyes. So much beauty, and all for Sherlock Holmes? It was overwhelming, and Sherlock's vision faltered, even as he pulled John's leg up and over his shoulder. The detective shut his eyes and set a vicious pace, pounding relentlessly into John as primal need drove him to claim his mate.

In between shallow gasps for air, John keened arching up to take in his lover's offering. The delicious sound coming out of John tempted Sherlock to open his eyes. He shook his head to clear his sex-dazed vision because it looked as if John glowed with hues of rosy-gold, then gleamed with hints of silver-green—'like a leprechaun in a rainbow,' supplied Sherlock's lust-addled mind. Sherlock chose to ignore the fantasy of John's colorful glowing as well as the imagined smells of roses, fresh-mown grass or the smell of rain in springtime.

John's attempts to meet Shrelock's thrusts faltered, and he lost his rhythm. His eyes shut tight hiding the fire in his eyes. The glow had vanished. Sherlock kept pistoning in—surely hitting the John's sweet spot, given the way the blond shuddered with each thrust. Sherlock grasped his lover's firm, purple member and stroked it once, twice and again.

John said, "Oh, Sherlock, " so softly that his lover barely heard it.

Then leprechaun threw back his head and seemed to burst into flames that neither burned nor consumed the lovers. John's grey hair turned silver, his blond hair became gold. John shimmered and pulsed with fiery life. His brow creased with the agony of his ecstasy.

John moaned and his burning seed over poured over Sherlock's hand and streaked fiery trails over the mated lovers.

Still slamming into his lover, Sherlock bent to capture John's soft mouth, taking in the last of the leprechaun's rapturous groans and inhaling the scents of loam and herbs on his lover's breath.

His hips drove ever harder as John clenched around him. The pressure and the heat traveled from his cock to his loins. The fire coiled inside him, spreading into his veins, his nerves and back to his groin. He pounded into John, driving them both backwards along the bed.

And the molten passion, which Sherlock had so long denied, erupted. He grunted once, emptying into his shuddering mate. John clung to him, crying out—nearly a scream this time—as his member pulsed weakly in a second, mostly dry climax.

They clung to one another as they rode the waves of shared exaltation.

His arms shook, and before he collapsed and crushed the smaller man, Sherlock lowered himself onto his beloved leprechaun. He tucked his face into his lover's neck and slid his arm underneath the blond, drawing John even closer. He hugged him so tight that it made breathing nearly impossible. But John didn't seem to mind, and Sherlock Holmes hardly cared about breathing. Breathing was boring.

John was not boring. John was the new center of Sherlock's universe. Sherlock held the leprechaun securely against his chest so that their hearts could beat together as one. His mind sluggishly re-booted. He was fairly certain that some magical bargain had been sealed with the so-called gifting and subsequent intercourse. He wondered at the significance of the shimmering lights.

Oh, never mind, thought the detective, the lights were only hormone induced fantasy, because John only ever glowed golden, never in color. The lights didn't matter. Nothing mattered except that John was now his. Sherlock was happy. He felt that he'd always be happy, so long as the little blond belonged to him.

Despite Sherlock's doubts concerning the necessity of breathing, his transport disagreed. Without conscious volition, Sherlock loosened his arms and turned his head away from John's bewitching skin (which smelled uncannily of Sherlock's grandmother's garden), and the brunet gulped down refreshing draughts of air. The drowsy, satiated detective didn't find it odd that the air of room shivered faintly with silver, rose and golden lights. Nor did it seem unusual that the lights smelled of flowers and crushed leaves. Indeed, those smells were probably what had reminded him of his grandmother's garden in the first place.

It was good. It was all very, very good. Sherlock drifted off to sleep listening to his lover whisper happily about love using English and using his funny, unfamiliar, probably fairy-ish tongue—unfamiliar except for one word, _a chroí_. Sherlock knew that a chroí meant him, Sherlock. John was whispering about Sherlock and love, and that was very good indeed.

**A/N **Right, so only one more short chapter is left and it's almost finished. Really! I promise. There's even sequel planned, because I'm a bit loony.

Thank you for reading. I would be very grateful for you reviews and comments. :D


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N **Finally, the concluding chapter in this fluffy piece of romantic nonsense. (See notes at the end about the exciting sequel to Leprechaun).

This chapter would not be possible without the help of my beta, Old Ping Hai. I am so grateful for her support and editing assistance. Of course, all remaining errors are my own.

I do not own the rights to Sherlock. I add this disclaimer just in case anyone thought that I might own the rights to Sherlock, which I do not ;D

**Chapter 9**

"Sherlock!"

"Wake up, Sherlock!"

It took enormous effort, but Sherlock finally opened his eyes. The room was pleasantly dim, illuminated by the grey light that crept past the edges of the tawdry, ill-hung drapes. John sat on the edge of the bed, dressed in tight, faded jeans and a big, frumpy oatmeal-colored fisherman's jumper.

Sherlock blinked. The first thing that his great mind deduced was that John Watson actually _prefered_ ugly, over-sized jumpers. Then he deduced that he himself had slept like a rock (a small miracle), that it was morning (well, anyone with half a brain could have deduced that), and that it was raining lightly (again obvious).

'Really, Sherlock?' he asked himself, although Mycroft's sarcastic tones overrode his own mental voice. 'However did you deduce that?'

'Well, it's dripping outside the window,' Sherlock answered himself, 'and John's hair is wet.'

John's tawny hair was shot through with rain drops, though his hideous jumper was dry. With sugar coated lips, the leprechaun smiled down at Sherlock. while eating a jam-filled donut. Adoration radiated off John like glamour.

Sherlock adored his leprechaun right back and wanted to lick that sugar off his lover's lips, and get that bit of jam left in the corner of John's mouth. He smiled at the blond from under hooded eyes, appreciating the way John's pupils dilated in response to a simple smirk.

'Really? That's it?' demanded Mycroft; well it was actually the rational, non-lovesick portion of Sherlock's brain. But it often had the annoying habit of sounding just like Sherlock's irritating sibling. 'You're missing everything of importance.'

'It _is_ unusual for me to sleep so long…'

'No, Sherlock! _Look_ at him!' demanded Mycroft sternly.

"Mm," hummed the detective, admiring his adorable, jumper-wearing lover.

"Good morning," said John, smiling wider and waving his donut, perhaps thinking that Sherlock wanted a donut—or a kiss, because the leprechaun leaned down to give the brunet a sweet kiss. A few drops of water dripped from John's hair.

'Rain. John was out in the rain? Why?'

'Precisely,' snapped Mycroft/'rational Sherlock.

John, unaware that he was the topic of a silent mental discussion, got up to open the drapes, allowing grey light to filter through the tatty yellowed sheers.

'And just where did John get that ugly jumper?' thought Sherlock, ignoring the drapes. 'And the donuts?'

'Exactly!' snapped Mycroft. Mental Mycroft was as acerbic as the real one.

'John went shopping.'

"Except," prompted the logical part of his brain.

"Except that...John has no money,' thought Sherlock. 'Perhaps he took my wallet?'

'Which is on the nightstand where you left it last night,' replied Mycroft. 'The wallet has been untouched. Your _leprechaun _was running about a modern city, doing heaven only knows what…'

Sherlock slammed the door on mental Mycroft, who was as irritating as the real person. He struggled to a sitting position, running his hand through his hair.

"Where..." Sherlock's voice was as rusty as his groggy brain. "Where did you...get clothes…"

"I borrowed them from a shop," said John, proudly smoothing down the front of his jumper as if it had been knitted from the finest cashmere. Then he gifted the younger man with another slow, sweet, serious kiss before continuing, "I also borrowed some tea in plastic cups and these truly scrumptious cakes from a lovely-smelling bakery," continued John. "Ohh, you should have seen the bread...well, actually you can. I borrowed some rolls too, and some jam."

While John chattered on about jam pots, rolls and frosted cakes, Sherlock dropped bonelessly back into the lumpy pillows.

He knew that he should pursue this line of questioning. He knew that it was risky for John to explore on his own, given his tendency use magic. However, the genius from London was distracted by a strange feeling. A feeling that he barely recognized. A feeling that told him that everything was fine. He felt satiated and relaxed and _happy_.

That was it! Sherlock Holmes felt happy; this was something new. Sherlock could not truly remember having felt happy in decades. Oh, he sometimes felt proud satisfaction after solving a difficult case, and he felt content when playing his violin or running a stimulating experiment.

But shockingly, this short, sugary and very affectionate mythical creature, who happened to dress like someone's grandfather, was able to make Sherlock Holmes deliriously happy.

John's adoration for him was open, blatant and beyond doubt.

It should have been cloying or worrisome. But no, it was comforting and exhilarating and better than drugs or a closed-room murder on Christmas day.

This feeling of joy and (dare he even think it?) love made the shabby hotel room lovely. It filled the room with the memory of golden lights and echoes of the scents of growing things.

'Scents do not have echoes,' began his Mycroft-sounding rational voice. Sherlock slammed the mental door on Mycroft again and threw the mental deadbolt for good measure.

Sherlock only half-listened to the leprechaun's prattle about a garden in the inn's courtyard. Sherlock was vaguely worried that his mind had become soft and dull from all these sentiments—last night's incredible sex may not have helped either.

After a moment's deliberation, he found that he was much too happy to care whether his brain turned to mush.

The younger man rearranged the pillows so that he could sit properly. He snagged John's hand and tugged him close enough to kiss his damp hair. As he nuzzled John's sweet-smelling hair (this morning it smelled of fresh-cut hay and apple blossoms), he idly wondered who cut John's hair. Did fairies have barbers? He wondered what time it was, and how long John had been out of their room.

Not that John wasn't free to come and go as he pleased—within reason. Actually, John shouldn't be coming and going on his own, at least not until he was more comfortable with the twenty-first century and had learned how to pass as a normal human. But it was already too late, wasn't it, thought the World's Only Consulting Detective. John had been up very early and had gone shopping before most shops had even opened.

But how had John gotten out of bed and out of the room without waking Sherlock in the first place? After all, Sherlock Holmes famously required almost no sleep at all and thought of himself as a light sleeper whenever he did succumb to his transport's demands for rest. He wondered whether leprechauns slept even less than consulting detectives. And could this present a problem?

John had stopped talking, but kept eating; he fairly purred as Sherlock absently stroked the short blond hair over the nape of his neck.

Chuckling again (Sherlock silently acknowledged that had laughed more times in the past week than he had in the past ten years), he pulled John even closer to peck at John's lips, tasting the sugar and licking away that tempting bit of jam. John cuddled close, running his hand down Sherlock's bare torso before resting his fingers on a bony hip. Sherlock leaned back against the rickety headboard, raising crossed arms above his head.

The detective sighed; he was horribly, boringly, shockingly happy.

"I brought you some tea," said John finally. "It's not nearly as good as I would make for you if I had a kettle, but it will do."

John bounced up to retrieve a paper bag and a large Styrofoam cup. With a grave look, indicating the importance John placed on tea, he handed the cup to the lounging brunet.

Sherlock looked doubtfully at the cup in his hand. He hated disposable cups, which leached the flavor of plastic into their contents like poison. He'd learned this prejudice from Mycroft and never questioned it. However, the sweet scents of tea and honey wafted up from the despicable styrofoam, and he did not want to be rude to John. Besides, refusing the drink would be Mycroftish and therefore repugnant.

He took a sip of the purloined beverage; it was surprisingly good, and he said so.

The leprechaun beamed from behind another jam-filled doughnut. The smile reminded Sherlock of his strange half-awake dream about a sunrise, which had followed their passionate love-making.

Sherlock's rational self desperately needed to put a halt to all this sentimental nonsense. His logical half needed to reassert itself, if only just a little. His scientific self insisted on looking at the situation in the cold, clear light of reason.

'The tea, Sherlock—where did he get the tea?' suggested mental Mycroft.

'How did you get back in, Mycroft,' thought Sherlock, with a down-curled lip, 'Go away and stop trying to ruin everything!'

'Think Sherlock!' Think about the tea!'

All right, where had the tea come from? Sherlock recalled that John said that he had borrowed it. All right then. Apparently John had arisen early and set out to commit petit larceny for tea, baked goods and a truely horrible jumper.

Not that the leprechaun's larcenous behavior was a moral problem for Sherlock. As far as he was concerned, John deserved to have anything he wanted, whenever he wanted. However, the rest of the world would consider thievery a problem. The rest of the world would call John a criminal and arrest him, taking him away from Sherlock. That would be a problem; indeed it would be a catastrophe. Anything that kept John away from Sherlock was a disaster to be avoided at all costs.

The detective's pink lips turned way down in disapproval. "John, I do not think that the correct term is borrowing," said the detective. "I believe that the technical term is stealing. You stole the tea and the clothes, and since I do not want you to be arrested, you should not…"

"No, it's not stealing. You yourself called it borrowing when you borrowed x-rays and coffee at hospital, and you forgot to mention that I borrowed these cakes and rolls for us, too. The cakes are fried and they're quite delicious. Here, try one."

John thrust a doughnut into Sherlock's face.

"I'm not hungr…"

"Yes, you are," said John and now his smile faded, which Sherlock found to be unacceptable. He wanted John to be happy.

"I suppose you aren't actually_ hungry_. I think the technical term you want is _ravenous_," continued the blond. "Your grumbling stomach woke me up in the first place, which is why I went out in search of food."

The detective frowned even more, because his transport had betrayed him again and was the cause of John's illegal activities. Nevertheless, he accepted the doughnut, making John smile again. It was as if sunlight filled the room.

'Mission accomplished,' thought the smug sleuth at the return of John's grin.

"I didn't steal anything," continued John, and the smile faded. "Although I suppose it wasn't really borrowing either." The older man's forehead scrunched up as he considered the moral and linguistic dilemma. Then his furrowed brow smoothed as his grin returned. "Actually, it was more in the way of a barter. I took some stuff that people didn't really need, and left them with something that they actually wanted."

"Hmm?" questioned the detective from around his doughnut.

"Hmm? Oh, you mean _what_. What I left them was good fortune and fertility."

The detective couldn't resist a knowing smirk. "I think that you'll find that most merchants prefer currency."

"I don't know," said John doubtfully. "I've found that lots of people really like good luck and fertility."

"Nowadays, people like money," said Sherlock, absently accepting another donut from his paramour—anything to keep John happy and wearing that breathtaking smile of his.

The coldly rational detective decided to correct John for his own good while speaking around the jam-filled donut, "Now to be quite frank, John, I could care less whether you stole these items, although I do have to question your taste," he added, as he fingered John's shapeless jumper.

John frowned, petting his ugly jumper protectively.

"But I will care if you get captured while shoplifting and become embroiled in the legal system," continued Sherlock. "We agreed that we need to get you back to England as soon as possible. Legal entanglements will delay our escape. You could be taken off to jail, or those fairies could capture you. Either way, I couldn't bear it if you were taken from me."

John gasped and turned pale at the suggestion of separation.

The blond stopped devouring sweets and put on his adorable John-is-trying-to-think face again. Logical Sherlock threw up his hands at the ridiculous sentiments eating away at his brain like acid.

"Separation would be very, very bad," agreed John, slowly nodding his head. "It would be intolerable. All right, no more bartering. Since I need currency, I suppose I could borrow some currency from a bank…"

"No. No. No!" said Sherlock loudly. "You would certainly get caught if you tried to rob a bank! "

"Not if I was unseen…"

Sherlock felt a bit panicky at the thought of John attempting to borrow money from a bank. He felt sick at the thought of John being dragged off in handcuffs. He had to stop John from committing bank robbery—or any other robbery. "John, you don't need to steal money. I will give you as much money as you want."

"Ohhhh. Well if you want to gift me money," said John, "that would be acceptable. But you've already gifted me so much, too much...it might cause an unlucky imbalance. Maybe…maybe we could do a _trade_." Predictably, John's brow had crumpled as he considered his options. Then the imaginary light turned on over John's head. "I know, in return for currency, I will gift you with a great deal of luck and fertility."

A smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's lips as he bit into a jam-slathered roll. "John, I do not require anything in return. I will happily accept your so-called 'good luck'. However, I have no need of fertility."

"Mmm," said John, nodding. "Of course you don't need any fertility right now. I knew that."

The younger man's smile remained. "We're both men, John. What good is fertility between us?"

"_I'm_ not a man, Sherlock," said John patting his lover's hand. "I'm a leprechaun."

"John, scientifically speaking…"

"Yes, yes. Never mind fertility. It's not important today," said John, looking at Sherlock's wrist watch which was on the nightstand next to the detective's wallet. "It's getting late and I don't want to miss the flight of the Aer Lingus aero-plane, especially since it was your first official gift to me. Your suit is cleaned and pressed. I asked the launderer to do it. At first he said no, because his shop wasn't open, but then I offered to heal his back for him…"

"John, we agreed. No more magic until it is safe. You need to keep a low profile! We don't want your fairy friends to tracking you down."

"They can't find me. I have a stinky amulet."

"We also don't want to attract the attention of any government officials with your blatant displays of prestidigitation."

"I do not engage in slight of hand, Sherlock. I am able to share luck and health magically. Anyway, the launderer was in pain, Sherlock. I couldn't just ignore his pain; I had to heal him. I would have done it for free, but I know how much you value your fine costume, so I set it all up as a trade in kind—see, no stealing involved. And I kept a low profile, just like you said last night when we were in the cab." John held his finger by his nose, apparently to impart that he was very cagey. "I never mentioned magic. I told the launderer that I had learned a special massage whilst in the West Indies, which has the benefit of being true. I did learn massage from a witch who had been to the West Indies, not Mary, another witch. I did not mention that I am also a leprechaun; I kept that a secret. Nick, his name was Nick, agreed to our bargain, and while I rubbed his back, I also healed him. At first he wanted more. In fact, for some reason, he thought we were going to have sex following the massage." John blinked in confused remembrance.

Sherlock bolted upright as his brows descended in fury. He couldn't decide whether he should end Nick's miserable existence or whether it would be more prudent to flee back to England with his sprite who couldn't resist using magic at every turn.

John's eyes had widened at the sight of his angry lover, "Howsomever," John added quickly. "I convinced Nick that we would not be sharing intimate relations now or ever. I may have sprained him—a bit. Then, once he had gotten over his disappointment about not having sex, we each had a beer, which was very cold and kind of gross. I do not understand this habit of chilling beer and ale—except perhaps in the summer. It might be nice when the weather is hot. Then I healed his wrist, because now we were clearly friends. And after that, I helped him wash your shirt and then cleaned your suit and then we pressed everything, which was fascinating, because we used an electric press. I pressed a fair few extra shirts just for fun. Did I mention that I love electricity?"

"John, thank you for pressing my suit…"

"You're welcome, dear heart," said John, kissing Sherlock tenderly.

"However..."

"No. We don't have time for howevers."

"We do have time. We need to discuss when it is appropriate for you to flirt with others, which is never. And we need to discuss when it is safe to perform magic, which is almost never."

"Yes, yes. But not right now. Right now, you need to get ready for flying in the Aer Lingus areo-plane to Heathrow Airport," said John, tugging on the blankets.

Sherlock sighed. "You may be right."

The leprechaun beamed.

Sherlock frowned, grumbling, "Since you chose to demonstrate your magical and larcenous proclivities to the entire neighborhood, the sooner we leave the better." The brunet threw back the covers and stood up.

John licked his lips as he admired his lover's naked form. The sight may have been overwhelming because he was forced to close his eyes and adjust his tight jeans.

"The aero-plane will be exciting," said John, as if distracting himself. "I can't wait to fly over the land and sea and…"

"I just want to get out of here before people come looking for the cute little blond who flirts outragously with strangers, performs miracles of healing and trades fertility for donuts," muttered Sherlock.

"Cute? I am not cute! And nor do I flirt with strangers. Nick is not a stranger...and anyway I wasn't flirting. Furthermore, the baker doesn't _know _that I gave her fertility. I was unseen, and the transaction was a secret. But she'll be very happy in a few months. In fact, since her husband is home on leave, I think they'll be blessed with a beautiful baby in a little over nine months."

"Babies are not beautiful. They look like mushy prunes."

John blinked in surprise at this pronouncement. "No, babies are lovely."

"No, they are ugly. And they are loud, messy and inconvenient. Never mind about babies, John. I think we should leave sooner rather than later."

That seemed to suit the leprechaun, who smiled like sunshine again.

"I shall be ready in a just a few minutes," said Sherlock, heading for the bathroom and a quick shower. "In the meantime, wait in here for me."

"Yes."

"Don't go outside."

"Fine."

"No magic."

"No. I wasn't going to use any magic," said John, tearing off a piece of bread. "I get tired if I use too much magic at once. Unless I have something to concentrate the magic, like ambergris, which you promised me…"

"Ambergris will have to wait."

"Well, then I'm too tired for any more magic."

Sherlock nodded, grateful for small favors.

"I got you some things from the apothecary," said John, handing the nude brunet a small carrier bag. "A new-fangled disposable razor like the one in hospital that you wouldn't let me keep because I cut my thumb on it and a toothbrush and toothpowder, which it was very hard to find tooth powder. It was hiding behind some nasty toothpaste, which was the only thing I didn't like in hospital. There's also some deodorant here, because Harry says that smelling like a human being is bad, which is weird since she's a human being too. Personally, I don't mind a bit of musk. I like your musk. I want to taste it…"

Sherlock briefly lost his train of thought when he imagined the leprechaun tasting his musk.

"By the way, I used your deodorant so that I won't smell human and musky, but I borrowed a toothbrush for myself, because Harry said that humans think…"

"What did you barter for all this?"

"Nothing. I stole them. Nick the launderer told me that the apothecary cheats his customers, so he deserves bad luck." John looked thoughtful as he chewed yet another mouthful of roll slowly. "Only the launderer called the apothecary a chemist."

Sherlock sighed, "Were you invisible?"

"I was unseen."

"Good. Stay here. Borrow nothing. I am taking my shower," said Sherlock.

"Wait. I have a question," said John. "The launderer enjoyed hearing about our coupling last night. He offered me some tips, after I confessed that last night was my first time laying with a man. Then he offered to demonstrate, and I almost had to sprain him again. I told him, Mrs. Watson's son wasn't born yesterday, although when you consider that I was born over two hundred years ago, I actually was born yesterday. Yes…well, to make a long story short…" John must have noticed Sherlock's increasing irritation. "…to make up for accosting me, he suggested that I go to the apothecary's to buy you some Lube. He said it would make it easier for you to shag my sexy little behind. Only I didn't see anything called Lube at the apothecary's, and I couldn't ask the apothecary because the shop wasn't open yet. That's when I realized that I should have accepted Nick's offer to help me find this Lube…"

"If I ever meet Nick, I will kill him," said Sherlock coolly. John stared in appalled astonishment before blushing in smug self-satisfaction.

Ignoring the leprechaun's smirk, Sherlock ordered, "Stay here. Speak to no one, and do nothing except breathe."

"And eat," added John, tearing a roll in half and slathering it with jam.

Sherlock stalked to the loo, leaving the bathroom door open so that he could keep an eye on John. John mischievously grinned at the detective, taking Sherlock's breath away and irritating the man in equal measures.

The detective's shower was fast and very cold. The frigid water helped chill both his desire to shag John's sexy little behind and his equally strong desire to kill the man at the dry cleaners.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, they were ready. They traveled light, carrying only John's recent acquisitions. Sherlock only brought them along, because he didn't want to leave behind any evidence of John's 'shopping spree'. He hoped that John's stay in the neighborhood would not arouse much interest, aside from Nick, but better safe than sorry.

Sherlock opened the hotel room's door and stepped into the grey morning mist, which fell gently on a small, radiantly colorful garden. Wild flowers, small bushes and small, blooming fruit trees fought for space in a fifty-yard radius around their hotel door.

Moss and tiny herbs thrived in the cracks between the hotel's morter and sheets of ivy crawled up towards the rusty gutter. There were bell-shaped blooms and roses surrounding the door and window of their room forming a sort of bower.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, and breathed in to calm himself. He inhaled the sweet-scented air of a miniature Eden. Wild flowers and grasses fought for space in the onetime car park. Overnight, plants had sprouted and even seemed to thrive in the cracked pavement. Somehow flowering trees (apple or perhaps cherry) now grew in the litter filled dirt alongside the road.

Sherlock bit his lip, scanned the miraculous garden and the steadily growing crowd of amazed onlookers and then turned to his leprechaun, who had the grace to look a bit embarrassed.

"John, I just asked you not to perform any magic," said Sherlock, waving his hand at the ersatz garden.

"This happened last night, before you insisted on the no magic rule," said John. "It happened when we coupled, and it's not my fault anyway. It was Beltane."

The detective slowly tilted his head.

"_Why _did it happen_?"_

"Because we coupled," said John, trying to push past the taller man.

"Will this happen every time we…couple?"

"No. Only sometimes," said John, cautiously meeting Sherlock's eyes.

"And when can I expect…"

"Look, it's perfectly natural. It's nothing more than an overflow of fertility. It had to go somewhere," said John, squinting at a small blue butterfly that had landed on Sherlock's shoulder. "The magic is very powerful on Beltane. I do believe that auto-mobile is our hired livery. You can see it just behind the apple tree."

John waved excitedly at the cabbie who was straring and rubbing his eyes at the profusion of growing things.

"Yes, that is our cab," said Sherlock evenly.

"Let's go then," said John, trying to brush past the detective..

"John, I need to know how to stop you from growing a jungle every time we…"

"It's not a jungle. It's a few flowers...and trees...and maybe some roses. I like roses…"

"John, there are butterflies and crickets."

"Yes. And look," added John, pointing to the apple tree again, "there's a robin's nest. They'll be laying eggs very soon."

Sherlock sighed and took his leprechaun's hand.

"John, can you control this….this..."

"This fertility?" offered the leprechaun.

"Yes, fine. Can you control this fertility?"

"Yes. Except on Beltane…and Mid-summer's Eve," John scrunched up his brow again, "and it might be hard to control the magic during the full moon sometimes."

"I shall remember this and plan accordingly," said the consulting detective, holding the blond's hand rather tighter than might be expected. "Now, John, you need to remember that you must hide your magic. People will not understand. Try to remember what you were like before you met the fairies. Surely your people were suspicious of magic, were they not?"

"Maybe," said John dubiously.

"Trust me, John," said Sherlock, leading his leprechaun through the garden. "Just do no magic, none at all, until we get to the cottage in Sussex. Even there, I would prefer you to discuss it with me first. At least until you understand the risks."

"Right," agreed John, frowning in concentration as they approached the waiting taxi. "But Sherlock, what _exactly_ do you mean when you say _no magic? _Because I think I might want to give the aero-plane some good luck before we get in it, since it's going to be flying up very high and that's exciting but a little scary, too. And maybe I should give the livery driver some good luck because he's quite hung over and auto-mobiles move very fast. They're a bit dangerous, which is good. I like dangerous. But I also think a bit'o luck wouldn't go amiss."

Sherlock had to bend to avoid the low-hanging branches of the apple tree as he gently but firmly shoved his leprechaun into the cab.

The detective pretended not to hear the locals exclaiming over the garden, which had sprung up in the car park. He pretended not to notice when his leprechaun glowed faintly in spite of Sherlock's injunction, no doubt giving a bit'o luck to the cabbie, who was indeed hung-over.

Then John smiled at his lover, lighting up the cab's rather dirty interior, and Sherlock's lips slowly tipped up into an answering grin. John was happy, and soon he would be safe, at least from fairy attacks. And clearly, Sherlock would not suffer from boredom as long as John was around. So perhaps all was well.

The cabbie shook his head in confused sobriety as he drove the taxi past three news cameras, Emergency Response Personnel and several nuns who knelt in reverent prayer.

Sherlock heard his leprechaun whisper that the sisters had mistaken the very natural explosion of luck and fertility for a miracle, which was a very different thing.

"Don't be an idiot, John," murmured Sherlock. "The garden is a miracle, because you are a miracle, my miracle."

"Oh," said John, looking pleased.

Logical Sherlock took control long enough to half-heartedly bemoan all this romantic rot and to order the cabbie to take them to the airport. Then the reasonable portion of Sherlock's brain surrendered to the insanity sentiment, because even he had fallen in love with his leprechaun.

**A/N**

Please note, I tried editing this using my tablet. Bad idea. If anyone spots any bizarre error, such as gibberish, please let me know. (Note to self—do not use tablet to edit FF).

Thank you for reading and please consider sending me your thoughts, comments or constructive criticisms. I would love to hear from you in a review.

If you enjoyed this story or if you are in the market for magical realism and Sherlock meets Christopher Lee, then you might enjoy the sequel to Leprechaun which is titled 'When Death Came to Tea', now posting at a FF site located on your computer or mobile devices.

And thank you.

:D


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